


Neither Can You

by BabyCharmander



Category: Coco (2017)
Genre: (I'll warn when that part comes up), (even though there's canon ships here the romance is not the focus--hence the gen tag), Abduction, Aftermath of Torture, Angst, Broken Bones, Family, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Torture, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recovery, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-23
Updated: 2019-02-22
Packaged: 2019-03-08 10:48:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 77,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13456638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BabyCharmander/pseuds/BabyCharmander
Summary: “Do you care about your familia... more than your music?”Héctor felt his every bone light on fire. As if there would ever, ever be doubt of that again, after all he’d gone through, the mistakes he’d made that led to a hundred years of misery, a hundred years of being unable to mend his wife’s broken heart, a hundred years of separation from his daughter. “Si, Ernesto. Especially more than my music.”A smile crossed Ernesto’s features. “Are you willing to put that to the test?”





	1. Late

**Author's Note:**

> Hiya folks! Uhhh... so this is my first Coco fic! Before we start, there's a couple things I want to note.
> 
> First, while I will be trying to keep this as close to canon as possible, I am making two minor tweaks to canon for this fic. For one, skeletons will have the ability to shed tears, because I say so. For the other, even though the novel states that Mama Coco died closer to the Day of the Dead (that is, the "one year later" epilogue of the movie), in this fic, she died a month after the first Day of the Dead, but she was able to pass down enough stories so that Hector is safe from being forgotten. Otherwise I'll be sticking to canon as best I can. Cool? Cool.
> 
> Second, PLEASE do not hesitate to give me constructive criticism! This is my first time writing these characters, so let me know if you think they're behaving OOC. Also, I do not speak Spanish, so if any of the Spanish in this fic is inaccurate, please let me know. Thank you in advance!
> 
> Oh, one last thing--I'll be trying to get a chapter out once a week, and at the time of my writing this, I have a five chapter buffer. So I SHOULD be able to hold to that. Regardless, I'm not going to leave this thing unfinished. 
> 
> With that out of the way, uh... let's begin?
> 
> (Sorry, Hector, you don't deserve this...)

"So—so then what happened?"

"Well, I _may_ have forgotten to wait for the paint to dry…"

"Ooooohoho!"

"Hey, I was in a hurry! But of course, while my costume was quite convincing, the glowing hand and footprints I left behind were… less so."

"I bet they led security straight to you!"

" _Sí._ It was… not my proudest moment."

Laughter rang out over the pleasant crackling of the bonfire, around which a dozen or so residents of Shantytown sat. One or two souls slapped their kneecaps in mirth, while one was mopping the tears from her face between giggles. After a moment, the nearly-forgotten souls noticed that their guest was watching them patiently, not having finished his thought, and leaned in closer again.

"Nor was the moment shortly afterward when they had to strip me to the bone and hose me down."

That sent them howling, and Héctor, still grinning in a mix of amusement and embarrassment, couldn't help joining in. Their laughter only got worse when a _CRACK_ like a gunshot sent one of them—Carla—falling backward off her now-broken chair, and Héctor had to scramble to help the poor lady back up. She nearly dragged him down with her, the both of them having trouble keeping their balance from the combination of laughter and slight inebriation.

When Héctor finally returned to his seat, one man, Aureliano, startled him with a hearty _thump_ on the back. "How did you _think_ of these things, cousin?" he asked, beard twitching in a grin.

His smile faltered a little. "Well, getting stuck in no-photo limbo for a century leaves you a lot of time to think, eh?"

That quieted them down, the souls looking down between the fire and the ground in somber thought.

Never one to let others feel sorry for him, Héctor waved a dismissive hand. "Ah, but that's all in the past! It doesn't matter, now that I have _mi familia_." He looked around the crowd as they lifted their heads, and grinned, throwing out his arms in a wide gesture. "As well as _MI FAMILIA_!"

Everyone gave a cheer of agreement, holding out their glasses in a toast.

Carla reached out, taking Héctor's hand. " _Gracias_ for visiting us, Héctor. It… it means a lot."

Staring down at her yellowed hand placed over his white one, Héctor felt his eyes going misty. He glanced away, blinking rapidly to keep any tears from forming, then turned back to face her with a genuine smile. "I would never forget _mi familia_ , blood or no blood."

"Héctor, none of us have blood anymore."

Chuckles all around. Everyone was quieting down as the lateness of the night began to settle in. They'd been there for several hours now, drinking, sharing stories, playing music (which Héctor now did with pride once again), and generally enjoying one another's presence. Héctor sat back and regarded the group fondly, only to sit up straight and alert. "Does anyone have the time?" he asked suddenly.

"Uh…" Aureliano held out his watch toward the light of the bonfire. " _Son las once menos veinte_."

"Then I need to be going." Héctor rose from his seat and slung his guitar case over his shoulder. " _Adiós_ , cousins!" he called back as he headed toward the gate.

" _Adiós_ , Cousin Héctor!" a few voices called after him, followed by a "Come back next week!" from Carla.

"You know I will, _prima_!"

And with that, he left the town, still savoring the sounds of laughter and cheerful conversation as they faded into the night.

It was warm and pleasant tonight, though that feeling may have just been from the alcohol. It was dark as well, but not so much that Héctor couldn't make his way back home. He'd been walking these streets for the better part of ninety years or so, and besides that, he'd walked to and from Shantytown and the Rivera household over and over again to time himself—he would never, _ever_ be home late. He would not have Imelda or Coco worry over him—not now, nor ever again.

At first Imelda hadn't been sure what to think of his trips to Shantytown every week, but he'd insisted on it—the people there had been his _familia_ for most of his afterlife, and he enjoyed their company. He wasn't going to abandon them, especially when, as Carla said, his very existence as someone who had been remembered from the brink of Final Death gave them all hope… hope that perhaps the same might happen for them.

The space inside his ribcage ached. He hoped so, too.

He'd been blessed beyond measure after his adventure with Miguel. It had taken some time, some getting used to, but he was slowly rebuilding his relationship with his wife, making up for lost time as he got to know the rest of his _familia_ … and spending time with his Coco.

A smile crossed his face at the thought of greeting his girls at the door, taking them both into his arms. Yes, he saw them every day, but that didn't matter; their every moment together was a miracle, and he would never take it for granted. They'd been working hard in the shop all day—Coco herself had been working on an order of custom dance shoes, and would be making a late-night delivery—and it would be lovely to relax and spend the night with them. Perhaps he could even surprise them tonight if he picked up the pace, and got home a little early—

His foot caught against something on the ground, catapulting the rest of him forward and into a huge pile of debris. Groaning, Héctor pushed himself up on one arm, rubbing his head as he looked up at the junk that filled the narrow alley he usually cut through. Crates, boxes, and garbage he couldn't clearly see were completely blocking his way.

When did _this_ happen?

Frowning, he reached back to retrieve his leg, only for his hand to grasp empty air. With a confused blink, he twisted himself around—his detached limb was nowhere in sight.

Well, that was a problem. Had he lost it amongst the garbage?

Héctor winced as he shuffled around the ground, lifting up broken boards and pieces of cardboard as he searched for his leg. Hopefully this wouldn't take too long, but if worse came to worst, he could just run the rest of the way home. But his leg didn't appear to be _anywhere_. Maybe if he…

Focusing, he wriggled his missing foot, listening for the sound of rustling and focusing on what he could feel. Much to his bewilderment, his foot kicked freely—there wasn't even any ground beneath it. _Pero qué —_

Something rustled behind him, followed by a quiet voice: "Looking for this?"

Before he could react, his tibia and fibula were swiftly reattached to his femur and kneecap. Heaving a sigh of relief, Héctor sat up on his knees. He then spotted an outstretched hand, which he readily took. " _Gracias, se—_ "

The hand hoisted him upright, and Héctor found himself face-to-face with the pearly white bones of Ernesto de la Cruz.

Panic shot through his marrow as he scrambled backward.

Ernesto did not release his grip.

Though the fear was still there, it was quickly overshadowed by anger. "What are you doing here?!" Héctor growled, quickly glancing at the pile of debris and gesturing at it with his free hand. "Did _you_ do this?"

Ernesto regarded him with an unreadable look and a tilted head. He still kept a firm grip on his hand. "Héctor, my friend… I have something to discuss with you. Come with me."

" _No_!" Héctor tugged at his arm, growling as Ernesto's grip only grew tighter. As he fought, he glared into Ernesto's face—something didn't feel right about it (other than the fact that Ernesto was _there_ , _in front of him_ , in the first place), but in his panic and anger, he couldn't figure out exactly what. "Let _go_ of me, _idiota_!"

When the man's grip continued to tighten, Héctor finally stopped, arm going slack. His expression softened a little, and he gave a short nod of agreement. "Fine."

And before Ernesto could react, he bolted away, leaving his arm behind like a lizard dropping its tail in the sand. It was a trick he'd pulled on the security at the gate a few times—usually it startled them enough to drop his arm, which he would then call back to himself as he got away.

Except Ernesto wasn't letting go.

Still running, Héctor focused on calling his arm back, tugging against Ernesto's grip. It was starting to hurt his wrist, the pain increasing with every tug… and then some. With a sharp gasp, Héctor screeched to a halt, straining to grab at an arm that wasn't there.

He could feel the bones of his hand being pried apart as foreign objects dug between his metacarpals. With a flurry of panic he realized what was going on, and attempted to scatter the bones in his missing hand and arm. It would be a pain to reassemble them, but better than their being broken.

He felt his arm bones clatter harmlessly to the ground, and began to call them back, only to give a strangled _yelp_ when something stomped on his bad ulna. _That only_ just _healed…!_

Ribcage heaving, he gave his separated bones another desperate tug. His humerus and radius finally returned, snapping back into place, but the pressure on his ulna only worsened—as did the pressure on the rest of his missing bones, which was getting unbearable. His ulna was being grinded into the ground, and the bones of his hand were being crushed against each other. If this didn't stop…

"Ay! _AY_! OKAY!" he shouted, forcing himself to turn around. He couldn't see Ernesto in the shadows of the alley until he trudged closer; as he approached, he could finally see that the man's foot was firmly stomped down onto his ulna, right on the spot where the duct tape was still applied. On top of that, Ernesto held something tightly in his fists—his other missing bones.

Héctor had trapped himself. Wilting slightly, he gave him a tired look. "What do you _want_ , Ernesto?"

The man regarded him cooly before jerking his head toward one of the nearby buildings, the door of which was slightly ajar. Mercifully he took his foot off Héctor's ulna and stepped through the doorway, keeping the other bones firmly in his grasp.

Wasting no time, Héctor summoned his ulna back, swallowing another pained yelp when it snapped into place. Yes, the fracture in it had _definitely_ re-opened. It was annoying, but he could deal with that, probably… and hopefully his _familia_ wouldn't notice, if he just reapplied the duct tape. _Oh,_ sí _, I'll get around to taking it off later,_ he would tell them, and it wouldn't _exactly_ be a lie.

His hand was another matter.

Staring into the dark building, Héctor hesitated. If he'd still had a heart, it would have been pounding at the thought of entering a strange building with his murderer. Experimentally he tried pulling the rest of his missing bones back, but flinched when he felt them _clang_ against something metal. Wherever they were now, they probably weren't going to be easy to get back.

He flinched inwardly—was this karma for what he'd done with Chicharrón's femur?

Ernesto's voice startled him out of his thoughts. "Do you want your hand back or not?"

_Sí_ , but Héctor couldn't ignore the feeling of dread filling the space where his stomach used to be. Ernesto was holding him hostage—part of him, anyway—which could only mean bad things. On top of that, he was absolutely going to be late getting home, and that thought hurt more than Ernesto's shoe stomping on his arm.

Héctor found himself in a terrifyingly familiar situation—standing in a doorway and wanting to run directly home, while his murderous " _amigo_ " beckoned him inside.

Looking out toward the main road on the other side of the alley, he tried to figure just how long it would take him to get home if he ran the entire way—

Pain knifed through his missing hand, and Héctor barely managed to swallow a scream.

He had no choice.

Terror pulsing through his marrow, Héctor stepped through the door.


	2. A Miserable Commiseration

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Héctor recalls a less-than-happy moment with his friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise! Since this chapter is very short and does _not_ pick up at the cliffhanger, I decided to post it early. You can expect (what should be) the normal update schedule to resume on Monday, when I'll be posting chapter 3.

" _How long has it been, now?"_

" _Hmm… two months."_

"Ay _. It may as well be two_ years _."_

_Héctor flopped back onto the bed and groaned at the way the action made his head swim. It had not been a good night—his homesickness was getting to him, and tonight he couldn't manage to sing and play with as much energy and enthusiasm as he normally could. Oh, they still got paid, but not as much as usual._

_Less to send home to Imelda and Coco._

_Though Héctor suspected that it wasn't the money Ernesto was upset about._

_Still, they'd decided to commiserate over their partial failure over a few drinks. Héctor had been hoping it would help him forget his homesickness for a while, but the alcohol seemed to have the opposite effect. What was worse, now he could barely focus to re-read Imelda and Coco's letters, which usually brought him some comfort._

" _Hah, if only, friend." Ernesto, who sat on the floor with his back against the bed, refilled Héctor's glass and held it up to him. "Perhaps someday."_

" _What…" Héctor pushed himself up, pressing the heel of his hand to his forehead in a vain effort to stop his head from swimming. Ernesto was still holding the glass out to him, and he pushed it away. "No,_ gracias _."_

_His friend only shrugged, hooking back the drink himself._

" _You… you really think we'll be on tour for that long?"_

" _Oh, not quite… We'll have time for vacations."_

_He wasn't sure if it was the alcohol or the idea of being away from home for that long that made him feel sick. Probably the latter. "I… I can't do that, Ernesto." He buried his face in his hands. "This is killing me already."_

"Héctor _!"_

 _The sharp_ clack _of glass against the floor made him start, looking down at his friend in surprise._

"Staying at home _is killing you!"_

 _As he started to protest, Ernesto rose from his seat, turning to face him. Whatever he was going to say came out as a bewildered stammer—Ernesto was_ angry. _While it wasn't unusual for them to argue or even scuffle, now… he was looking like he was finally releasing something that had been festering in him for a while._

" _It's_ destroying _you!" he cried, reaching out to grab Héctor's collar, and Héctor's reflexes were too sluggish to avoid him. "It's suffocating your talent!"_

 _Whether or not Héctor agreed with that, he couldn't argue, since something_ else _was suffocating him: Ernesto's grip on his necktie. He clawed at his throat uselessly—Ernesto's hand refused to loosen, and hoisted him up before shaking him._

" _What kind of musician_ hides _his talent in some shabby house? What right do you have to possess those skills and_ not share them _?!"_

"' _Nesto—!" he choked, kicking out with his feet, squirming, trying to do anything to loosen himself from Ernesto's hold._

" _How_ SELFISH _are you—?!"_

_He wasn't able to finish the thought as Héctor finally had the mind to grab Ernesto's arm with both of his hands and throw all of his weight to the side to knock him off-balance. With a startled yell, Ernesto crashed to his side, slamming Héctor against the bed._

_Clawing at his tie, Héctor threw it off, coughing and gasping for air._

_When Ernesto gripped the edge of the bed to push himself back up, Héctor scrambled backward, feeling his back hit the wall the bed sat against. His throat was still aching, his breathing ragged as he watched Ernesto heave himself up—_

" _Oh…_ hermanito mío… _!" Ernesto dragged a hand over his face, trying ineffectively to dry his tears. "I do not know what came over me… What have I done?"_

 _Héctor allowed himself to relax, though some part of him was still screaming at him to get away. He shut it down; he couldn't leave his friend distressed like this. "It's… it's all right,_ mi hermano _," he said, wincing at how rough his voice sounded, at how much talking hurt. Hesitantly he reached out to rub Ernesto's shoulder. "W-we've both had a rough night."_

" _I meant none of the things I said… or did…" Ernesto went on, unable to look his friend in the eyes—for guilt, Héctor assumed._

_Héctor wanted to say more, but Ernesto was too upset, and his throat was too sore—he would surely wreck his singing voice if he kept talking. He didn't need to, anyway, since the agreement between them was silent—Héctor would keep going for a while longer, since it was clear Ernesto needed him._

_But they would not be drinking together again anytime soon._

_The next day found them performing together again, Héctor leaving the vocals to Ernesto as he waited for his voice to recover. It wasn't ideal, but…_

_At least Ernesto seemed happier._


	3. A Choice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Héctor must pay a terrible price to protect his family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Monday! Er... not-so-happy Monday, as the case is here.
> 
> So uh, yeah. This is The Chapter. The Chapter In Which Very Bad Things Happen. This is probably as rough as this fic is going to get, though, so if you're the squeamish sort, you only need to make it through this chapter to get to the rest. Be prepared to skim if you need to.

The room was dark, and that was the least alarming thing about it. The meager light from outside shone through a dusty window and the open door, and that was enough to make Ernesto's shimmering white bones stand starkly out from the darkness. (Héctor realized, now, what had bothered him so much about the man's appearance—his bones were clear of cracks. He had healed rapidly over the past few months, unlike Héctor, whose bones were still mending.) While his focus was trained on the man, Héctor was vaguely aware of the other crates and boxes that littered the room—some long-forgotten apartment that had been haphazardly converted into a storage unit, then forgotten again. He tried not to dwell on what might have become of the original owner.

Instead, Héctor continued to lock eyes with Ernesto, trying to keep a relaxed stance while simultaneously preparing to bolt.

Finally Ernesto lifted his head, as though he were about to speak, only to give a short nod.

The door creaked shut.

Dropping any attempt at looking calm, Héctor whirled around, only to find himself facing one of Ernesto's many bodyguards. The large skeleton's expression was unreadable beneath his shades, and he stood between Héctor and the door.

"Calm down, my friend," came Ernesto's voice. "You won't be here long."

That statement had the opposite of its intended effect on Héctor, who was now attempting to judge just how well his bones and clothes would fare if he threw himself out the closed window on the far side of the room. But then, Ernesto was still holding his hand hostage somewhere in here—maybe once he figured out where it was, he could grab it and make a run for it. He could move very fast in spite of his still-healing leg, and his family would surely notice that he was late getting home, but—no, he didn't _want_ his family to get involved in… whatever this was.

Gritting his teeth, Héctor faced Ernesto again. "What do you want from me, Ernesto?" he growled.

"I want," Ernesto began, taking slow, deliberate steps closer, "my reputation back."

Héctor would have laughed under different circumstances. As it was, he fought to keep his back straight, refusing to be cowed by his murderer. "Yeah? Well maybe you should have thought about that before you p…" He couldn't finish the sentence, frustrated that the thought _still_ made a heavy weight settle in his chest cavity.

" _I_ should have?" Ernesto was standing— _too close for comfort_ , Héctor would have thought, except just being in the same room as him, period, was too close for comfort. " _You_ were the one who insisted on trying to run away to your _familia_ _estúpida_ , hiding your talents from the world—"

Rage shot through him. "You don't know _anything—_!" Héctor cried, taking a threatening step forward and clenching his fist—only to flinch when he saw the guard prepare to spring into action. Reluctantly he took a step back again. "Is _this_ why you brought me here?" He swung out his remaining hand in frustration. "To try to put the blame on _me_ for what you did?"

"No, there's no need for it." Ernesto held his hands behind his back, still regarding Héctor cooly. "Besides, you're not the only one at fault, after all."

Freezing, Héctor tried to ignore the anxiety that fluttered through his chest.

"All of that _could_ have stayed in the past, had that great-great grandson of yours not decided to be so clever."

Héctor couldn't stop himself from lunging at Ernesto, but he was quickly grabbed by the security guard. To his annoyance, the guard pulled his guitar case off his shoulders, but he had more important things on his mind. "You _stay away_ from Miguel!" he snarled, coming just short of grabbing the front of Ernesto's shirt. "Don't you _dare_ touch him!"

"I can't," Ernesto said plainly. "In the Land of the Living, he's untouchable."

He wasn't sure if the man was telling the truth—he'd thought he was pretty good at judging that, once upon a time, but now he couldn't trust himself with it. But it made sense—at most, souls could take items specifically offered to them back to the Land of the Dead, and allow the living to feel their presence. Otherwise, they couldn't directly influence anything in the Land of the Living.

Miguel was safe. He had to be.

Seeing Héctor had stopped fighting for now, the bodyguard released him, but still kept between him and the door. Héctor ignored him, keeping his focus on Ernesto. "This _still_ doesn't explain—"

" _You_ took everything away from me." Now Ernesto's face darkened. "You and that brat—you destroyed my reputation, caused me to lose the trust of my adoring fans in the Land of the Dead—"

"You've still got _him_." Héctor gestured toward the guard with his right arm, moving his hand out of habit and wincing when he felt it _clank_ against metal again. This time, though, he could faintly hear it coming from somewhere behind Ernesto. Was that a door to another…?

" _He_ is paid to assist me, and to not ask questions." He shook his head, starting to pace. "I can no longer play music. I cannot go near any concert halls, or plazas—!"

"You can still play," Héctor said, only half paying attention. If he could get past Ernesto, he could run into the other room, grab whatever his hand was trapped in, and make a break for it. He could split himself in half to jump over him, as he'd done with the security guard at the marigold bridge, but his suspenders were still attached. Maybe if he…

"Héctor, you _know_ music is meant to be played for others. It is a gift to be shared, not be selfishly holed up like—!" Ernesto stopped himself, taking a breath, returning to a calmer demeanor. He faced Héctor, who was pretending to scratch his shoulder. "But I'm getting sidetracked. You're here, Héctor, because I have a ques—"

The second strap slipped over his shoulder, and Héctor bolted at Ernesto. The guard ran for him, only to nearly collide with Ernesto as Héctor split, his top half leaping over the man while his bottom half slid under his legs. Quickly reconnecting, he made for the door, only to stumble on a box and crash forward.

" _Do you care about your_ familia?!"

Héctor froze partway to the door, propping himself up on all threes. "What…?"

"Do you care," Ernesto repeated, stepping closer, "about your _familia_?"

" _Sí_ ," he said, without hesitation. "More than anything in _el mundo._ "

"...Anything?"

Héctor rose to his feet and faced Ernesto again, the space inside his ribcage burning in anger at the very question. " _Sí_ , Ernesto, _anything_."

"More than your music?"

Forget his chest cavity—Héctor felt his every bone light on fire. As if there would ever, _ever_ be doubt of that again, after all he'd gone through, the mistakes he'd made that led to a hundred years of misery, a hundred years of being unable to mend his wife's broken heart, a hundred years of separation from his daughter. " _Especially_ more than my music."

A smile crossed Ernesto's features. "Are you willing to put that to the test?"

 _Of course_ , he nearly said, but something about Ernesto's grin made him falter. He was planning something. He wouldn't go through all this trouble if he weren't.

Ernesto went on as though he'd already answered: "I give you a choice, then, between your music and your _familia_."

" _Mi familia_!" Héctor snarled. "Why would I choose different?!"

"I haven't finished." Reaching a hand into his pocket, Ernesto began to search for something. "I've been keeping an eye on things. For example, I noticed the local _zapateria_ recently gained a new employee."

Héctor had begun charging at him the second the word " _zapateria_ " left his mouth, but the guard was quicker this time, holding him back as he struggled. "LEAVE HER ALONE, ERNESTO! YOU CAN'T TOUCH HER!"

Ernesto pulled a slip of paper out of his pocket, idly looking it over. " _I_ can't, but I can't promise you someone else _won't_."

 _I'd like to see them try_ , he almost said, except he wouldn't—he never wanted to see _anyone_ try to go after his family. "They won't get past Imelda, or Pepita, or—"

" _Invoice number_ ocho cero dos cinco uno."

Héctor's anger faded to confusion before plunging into the icy waters of horror.

" _Four pairs of dance shoes_."

He knew that order.

" _Sizes_ ocho, ocho y medio, y dos nueves _."_

Coco didn't enjoy making shoes like the other Riveras did, but she made exceptions for dance shoes. She hadn't stopped talking about this order for two days—how she was so happy that the family had embraced music and dancing again, how nice it was to see Rivera-made dance shoes after all these years.

" _Special instructions: Blue ribbons on the first pair._ "

How she couldn't wait to see the girls' faces when she delivered them, just like she used to all those years ago.

" _Yellow ribbons on the second."_

How she would make sure they were completed and delivered tonight, no matter how late it got, so the dancers would be ready for their show tomorrow morning.

" _Pink ribbons on th—_ "

" _MI FAMILIA_!" Héctor screamed, reaching out to Ernesto with both arms as the guard continued to hold him back. He was shaking so badly he felt his bones would shatter. " _Por favor, mi familia_ , I choose them over anything, my music, my life, _anything, por favor…_!"

"But I haven't gone over the rest of the terms yet, my friend," Ernesto said. "Are you sure you don't want to cons—"

" _What do the other terms matter_?!" he cried. He could feel the tears running down his face, too upset to even wipe them away. "I choose. _Mi familia_."

"I thought so." Pocketing the invoice, Ernesto strode past Héctor and to the door to the other room. He opened it, and said a few soft words that Héctor couldn't catch before shutting it again.

After a tense eternity, Héctor heard _beep_ and crackle of a radio from the other room, followed by some muffled speech. He looked at Ernesto helplessly.

Ernesto shrugged. "The Rivera _zapateria_ will receive payment for the purchase with no other complications."

Héctor went limp, too relieved to feel much surprise when the bodyguard dropped him to the floor. Part of him still wanted to take a flying leap at Ernesto, but his body was still in too much shock to cooperate, and he was having a hard time seeing, anyway. Shakily he pushed himself up on one hand, and went to wipe away his tears, only to remember his other problem. Right, he still had to get his hand back.

"That leaves one other thing."

Sitting back on his heels, Héctor rubbed his face with his remaining hand, looking up toward Ernesto.

For a long, uncomfortable moment, Ernesto regarded him. He wasn't smiling anymore, and he had an expression on his face Héctor couldn't fully place, but one that seemed oddly familiar all the same. With that familiarity came a chill running down his spine and a sickness filling the void where his stomach used to be.

Reaching behind himself, Ernesto knocked on the door to the adjacent room twice.

And before Héctor could ask what he was doing, pain knifed through his absent hand.

He cried out, automatically trying to grab at a hand that wasn't there. This had happened earlier when he'd tried to make a run for it, but this time, the pain didn't stop—it _spiked_.

He couldn't help the _shriek_ that tore through his throat as he scrambled backward, punching the floor, alternating between gritting his teeth and panting, kicking his new Rivera shoes against a nearby crate in a vain attempt to stop the pain. Some distant part of him noticed that both Ernesto and the guard had turned away, but any part of his mind that might have been able to formulate a plan—jump the guard, attack Ernesto, _anything_ —was utterly consumed with the thought of _make it stop, make it stop, make it_ _stop_

"' _NESTO_!" Héctor found himself screaming. He stomped his foot onto the floor so hard that it jarred his cracked tibia, but the pain was nothing compared to the agony his hand was in. " _¡Por favor, deja de, por favor,_ basta…!"

Complex plans were out of the question, but he knew he had to get to his hand, and his hand was behind the door. Another spike of pain shot through one of his missing phalanges, burning and cold all at once, and he could barely think as he kicked and pushed himself backward until his spine touched the door. He could just barely hear sounds on the other side now, over the noise on this side—someone was in the adjacent room, obviously, but he didn't particularly care, his only thought that he had to open the door, open it, hurry, _open it_ —

_Bang._

His body gave a pained jerk as the sound was accompanied by another burst of agony, somewhere in his metacarpals this time. The door, he had to open the door, he reached up with his left hand to grab it but his hand wasn't cooperating—

_Snap._

An explosion of pain and hot and cold and numbness hit him all at once, and he suddenly realized what those noises were. Had his mind not been so consumed with other matters, he would have been grateful that skeletons lacked the ability to vomit.

_Snap._

The nausea hit him with a wave of dizziness nonetheless, making it harder for him to stand. His legs shook badly as he tried to push himself upright, bracing his back against the door—

_Bang._

And he fell, hard, back to the floor, and did not try to get up again. His head was swimming, and he couldn't muster up the focus to reach for the doorknob again. Instead he slumped onto the floor, willing the world to blur around him as the agony faded to a distant throb.

When Héctor came to—minutes or hours later, he wasn't sure—he found himself in a slightly different position, still lying on his back, but now a short distance from the door, which was slightly ajar. Ernesto leaned away from the open door, holding something—a black metal object, like a cash box. Something rattled inside, and Héctor groaned as he felt fragments of his missing hand rubbing against metal.

"...Very brave of you to choose family over music," Ernesto said, setting the box on a nearby crate. "But not unexpected."

" _P-por…_ "

"Hm?"

" _¿P… por qué… 'Nesto...?_ "

The man did not look at him as he spoke, glaring down at the metal box instead and drumming his phalanges against it. "You took it all away from me, Héctor—my fame, my music…"

Finally he looked into Héctor's eyes, his expression one of seeming mock sympathy. "It's only fair, _mi hermanito_. If I can't have my music…"

Ernesto snapped his fingers, and the guard that had been in the adjacent room stepped out. Now both guards were towering over him, holding objects that Héctor was too scared and too exhausted to identify.

"...neither can you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll let you know right now--this fic skips over everything else that happens to Héctor and only shows the aftermath. HOWEVER, if you are really all that curious, you can read what happened [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15280206/chapters/39136126). It is NOT NECESSARY to read this in order to read the rest of the fic; it is purely optional. If you can't stomach torture, just go ahead and ignore that link and continue reading this fic as normal.


	4. Late-Night Delivery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Coco and Julio return from an encounter with a very strange customer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hiya folks! Hope you're having a good Monday (if it's Monday when you're reading this, anyway). 
> 
> Let's see how that shoe delivery went, huh?

The gondola was near-empty at this time of night, carrying only five passengers in its car. One was a dozing young skeleton whom the other passengers suspected _may_ have missed his stop. There was a security guard of some sort heading to her night shift, currently preoccupied with wiping at her uniform to try to rid it of a stain from a late-night snack. Another was a teenage soul who was quietly listening to her walkman at the far edge of the vehicle.

The last two were shoemakers, returning home from a last-minute delivery.

Coco sat backwards in her seat, watching the Land of the Dead pass by through the window. She would have rathered to stand on the back platform to get a better view, but Julio was understandably exhausted and wanted to sit down, and Coco was more than happy just to sit with her husband.

Well, mostly happy.

As she watched the many-colored lights dance around in the city below, she found herself heaving a sigh.

Feeling the rise and fall of her ribcage, Julio lifted his head sleepily. "Are you all right, _mi amor_?" he murmured.

"Oh, I'll be fine," she replied, turning around and wrapping an arm around her husband. He leaned into her side again contentedly. "I'm still thinking about those girls."

" _Está bien_. Maybe they'll put on another show sometime."

Coco nodded, leaning her head against Julio's. "I wished I could have seen their faces. They must have been so excited…!" In spite of how long ago it had been, she could still remember delivering shoes to a dance studio when she was younger, back when the Rivera _Zapateria_ still made dance shoes… how happy the girls had been, and how happy _she_ had been when she found that her uncles had accidentally made an extra pair that fit her.

Memories came to her a lot easier now than they used to.

"It's so late, though. You knew they would be asleep now." Julio sounded half-asleep himself.

" _Sí…_ "

"And if you want dancing, we can always do that later," Julio added with a quiet chuckle.

Coco returned the laugh. " _Sí_."

As she watched the Land of the Dead pass by through the opposite window, though, she found her thoughts drifting back to the delivery. She had been so excited about it at first, but thinking back, the whole thing felt… strange. Normally for a special order, people would call weeks in advance to make sure it was done on time, though rush orders weren't unheard of.

They'd gotten the call midday yesterday, from a man who had sounded quite flustered—his girls were to be putting on a dance recital in two days, and they needed shoes for it as soon as possible. Mamá was never one to back down from a challenge, though, and told him they could get the order to him on-time, though it would likely require a late-night delivery. Coco had been surprised by the order—she could still remember when Mamá had banned the production of dance shoes so many years ago, and she was thrilled to hear they were making them again. So much, in fact, that she had set aside her distaste for making shoes to fill the order herself. Mamá had helped, of course, as had Julio, but Coco did as much of the work by herself as she could.

Sure enough, the order _had_ been completed rather late at night, but Coco didn't mind. She had fully planned to deliver it on her own, but Julio had insisted on tagging along. She was still new to the Land of the Dead, having only arrived a month ago, and Julio worried that she may get lost. Coco knew she could handle herself, but she was more than happy to spend time with her husband.

It had been quite dark by the time they'd arrived, and in a district Julio was not familiar with. They found the house nonetheless—an older apartment—and were greeted by a tall man in a dark suit.

While Coco had been fine with the unusual neighborhood—she was still new to the Land of the Dead, what did she know?—something about the man had seemed… off. He didn't exactly radiate the "worried father" vibes he'd given off over the phone, and part of him had seemed… _hesitant_ about something.

He had been quick to announce what that "something" was, and awkwardly offered an apology: the dance recital had been cancelled last minute, so the rush had been for nothing.

Coco had been disappointed, but held out the shoe boxes to him nonetheless. The man had taken them uneasily, and stepped back into his apartment, mumbling something about getting the payment.

Once the door shut, Coco and Julio found themselves standing outside for an unusually long time. He could have at _least_ let them inside for a moment, Coco had muttered to Julio, who only shrugged. He had been more concerned about just getting the payment and leaving.

After about ten minutes, they'd knocked on the door to make sure the man hadn't forgotten the payment. He'd come to the door and apologized, saying it would be a bit longer and muttering something about a messy house.

It had been incredibly late at this point, and both of them had been ready to get home. Just as Julio whispered to Coco, wondering if she wanted him to ram the door open, the man had finally stepped out, carrying the proper payment. After handing it to them and wishing them good night, he had stepped back in and shut the door a little _too_ hard.

A strange situation indeed.

Coco supposed she couldn't complain too much, though. Four girls now had their own pair of custom-made Rivera dance shoes, and she'd gotten to take a trip outside the _hacienda_ and see more of the Land of the Dead. After spending the last several years of her life in a wheelchair, it was nice to just get out and _walk_ for a change.

Or ride a gondola.

Speaking of, they were nearing their stop. Coco nudged Julio, who snorted awake, and led him to the front of the vehicle as it pulled into the station. He managed to wake up enough to guide Coco from the station back to the _hacienda_ , and the walk home was quiet and peaceful. She thought about how her Papá would be home by now, and how he would have new stories to share about his _primos_ in Shantytown, and how they would spend some time together before turning in for the night. It seemed like it would be a nice end to a very long day—

Until they stepped through the gate.

Pepita's glowing fur stood starkly against the shadows of the courtyard. She was pacing about the yard, wings hunched, her yellow eyes focused on the ground before her.

The sight of the _alebrije_ caused Julio and Coco to freeze; if Pepita was upset, so was Mamá.

Suddenly Pepita took a whiff of air, and her head snapped up, slit pupils staring right at the two. Julio's head ducked into his ribcage, while Coco stood still—she knew the _alebrije_ would never hurt the family she was here to protect. Before either of them could say anything, Pepita swung her head toward the main building, and let out a _yowl_.

" _Mija_!"

Mamá Imelda was out of the house in an instant, making quick strides to cross the courtyard. There was anger to her movements, but her face betrayed her worry and relief. " _¿Estás bien?_ "

"Of course, Mamá," Coco answered, looking toward Julio as her husband quickly righted his skull. "It was quite the uneventful trip."

" _Ay_ , you can say that!" Julio held both his hands to either side of his skull to adjust it correctly on his neck.

Imelda placed her hands on her hips, eying her daughter and son-in-law as though they were misbehaved children. "How could you take so long for a delivery?! I was nearly ready to hop on Pepita to search for you!"

"It wasn't our fault, Mamá," Julio said with a wince. "The man took an age to get the payment out to us."

When Imelda looked to Coco for confirmation, she nodded. " _Sí_. We were standing outside his door for a long time, but he did get us the payment." Reaching into her pocket, she took the money and held it out to her mother.

Tension finally leaving her frame, Imelda rolled her eyes as she snatched up the bills. " _Ay, dios mio_ ," she sighed, marching back to the house. "People can be so inconsiderate! And for such a late delivery—!" She went on, muttering to herself in Spanish. Coco didn't concern herself with it, following her mother across the yard and into the house, Julio stumbling behind.

As they stepped through the door (Julio casting a wary glance at Pepita as they did so), Coco immediately looked around the living room, expecting to see her Papá hop up from a nearby chair to sweep her up into his arms and cover her in kisses, just like he did when she was little. (Yes, she was _much_ older now, but she didn't mind at all.) But to her surprise, her father was nowhere in sight.

"Mamá," she said, brow furrowing in disappointment, "has Papá already gone to bed?"

" _Ay_ , I don't know about him, but _I'm_ ready for bed," Julio moaned, already heading for the stairs.

Imelda turned around to say something, then paused. "...No," she said slowly, turning toward the clock on the wall. "I… have not seen him…"

Coco followed her mother's gaze, and felt her metaphorical heart leap into her throat. It was past midnight—Papá was always home by eleven.

" _Ay_! That man!" Imelda cried, stomping her foot into the floorboards. "I was so worried about you that I forgot to watch for _him_!"

Looking from Julio—who had paused part-way up the stairs—back to Imelda, Coco swallowed. "Mamá—"

" _¡Ese músico idiota!_ Why did I expect him to actually stay true to his word, and come home at a reasonable time?!"

" _Mamá_ —"

Imelda was pacing. Out in the courtyard, Coco could hear Pepita starting to pace as well. "He can go ahead and sleep _outside_ if that's what he—"

" _Mamá_!"

Finally Imelda paused, her narrowed gaze meeting Coco's.

Coco stood as straight as she was able, trying to look firm in spite of the worry gnawing at her ribcage. "Papá has come home on time _every_ night, hasn't he?" She didn't know for sure—he'd been setting out to visit Shantytown once a week since before she'd arrived here.

Imelda nodded. " _Sí_. He has."

The thought should have relieved her, but instead it gave her a fear that rattled her old bones—a fear that she'd felt ages ago as she sat by the window, staring up at the stars and singing the same old song, night after night, wondering when her Papá would come home… if he ever would.

"Do you remember… what happened the _last_ time Papá did not come home?"

The two stared into each other's eyes, and Coco soon saw her Mamá's gaze soften, her eyes widen.

Without another word, Imelda rushed past her and out the door. " _PEPITA_!" Coco heard her cry, and she rushed out after her as the _alebrije_ lowered herself to the ground. Imelda said nothing as Coco climbed on behind her.

" _Hijole_!" Julio scrambled after her, managing to grab onto Pepita's tail just as the spirit guide sprung into the air, leaving the Rivera _hacienda_ far beneath them.


	5. Found and Lost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Imelda and the others search for Héctor... or what's left of him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hiya folks! Ready for a new chapter? 'Cuz I sure am--gosh, you have no idea how hard it is having to wait a week to post these! (Though I have to give myself time to get the other chapters written. Buuuh. Still ahead of the game, though, at least!)
> 
> Quick reminder that I am always open to constructive criticism, whether it's about my writing, my characterization, or my shoddy attempts at Spanish. Thanks, dudes!

Pepita flew swiftly over the city, swooping around gondola tracks, balconies, and other flying _alebrijes_. Imelda barely noticed them, her mind focused entirely on finding a single skeleton.

Initially she'd flown off without a thought as to where they would start looking, only knowing that she had to find Héctor before anything happened to him—assuming nothing had _already_ happened to him. It wasn't hard to imagine the circumstances. While the media had long since stopped coming to the Rivera _zapateria_ (thanks to several dozen shoe projectiles and Imelda's impeccable aim), journalists would sometimes stalk Héctor as he walked through town, and pounce on him when he didn't expect it. While he managed to worm his way out of the situations at least half the time, more than once she'd had to come to his rescue, and occasionally Pepita would show up to drive the reporters away.

But for some journalists or reporters to jump on him in the middle of the night? Absurd. Unlikely.

The thought crossed her mind that they still hadn't caught that man—that dreadful, horrible man that had ruined their lives and nearly ruined their deaths—but surely he wouldn't be foolish enough to go after Héctor? Not after what Pepita had done to him.

Something else may have happened.

...Or nothing may have happened at all. Perhaps he had lost track of time and was staying out longer than he intended to. Perhaps he'd had a little too much to drink, and had fallen asleep somewhere. Those weren't entirely outside the realm of possibility, and while they weren't good things by any means, Imelda would rather bring trouble on Héctor herself than find he needed to be gotten _out_ of trouble.

As they flew, Imelda suddenly realized that they _did_ need a starting point of sorts, since Héctor's trail would have gone cold by this point. She knew he'd been off to visit his "other" family in Shantytown, so that was as good a starting point as any. It seemed Pepita was already heading there anyway.

"Do you think he's all right, Mamá?"

Imelda shook herself out of her thoughts—she'd briefly forgotten that she wasn't alone. Looking over her shoulder, she caught Coco's worried look, and chose her words carefully. "If anyone tries anything foolish with Héctor," she said, "they'll have Pepita and me to deal with."

Pepita gave a growl of agreement.

Julio (who at some point must have managed to crawl up onto the _alebrije_ 's back from her tail, and was now clinging desperately to Coco), wrapped his arms more tightly around his wife. "It'll be all right, Socorro."

When Coco looked back at her husband, Imelda took the opportunity to face forward again so she didn't have to keep masking her own worry.

It wasn't too much later that Pepita landed partway down the stone steps leading to Shantytown, not able to land directly in the town due to all the water. Standing as tall as she could, she allowed Imelda, Coco, and Julio to dismount onto the rickety wooden stairs, and stepped back. She began to climb the old steps, her nose snuffling loudly as she tried to pick up Héctor's scent.

Pleased that her spirit guide was wasting no time, Imelda immediately began descending the stairs. Coco and Julio exchanged confused glances before following.

"Why are we not following Pepita?" Coco asked.

"If she didn't pick up his scent immediately, then it's already faded from here," Imelda said. "She'll search on her own while we ask some questions from Héctor's… 'family.'" She would never get used to calling it that.

"This is where Papá lived?"

"Yes, _mija_. This is where many of the nearly-forgotten live." They were approaching the gate, now, beyond which lied the swampy town. Laughter and quiet music drifted out through the gate as they passed it, and up ahead a small gathering of souls sat around a fire. There were a lot of empty seats ( _hopefully they've just gone to bed_ , Imelda thought, remembering the scenes she'd encountered here a few months ago), but the souls that were still there were joyful and rowdy.

The Riveras' handcrafted shoes were not quiet against the half-rotten boardwalk that weaved through the town, and one soul twisted around in his seat to face them.

"Ah, seems like we've got more guests tonight."

The music abruptly stopped, and the other skeletons turned to face the newcomers. While a few of the souls were curious, most of them looked happy about the visitors. " _Hola, Tia_ Imelda!" one of them called out, gesturing to one of the seats.

Imelda shook her head politely—while the residents were usually pleasant to chat with, that wasn't what she was here for. "Where is Héctor?" she asked, crossing her arms stiffly. Part of her hoped they would inform her that he was passed out in one of the shacks, but…

The souls looked at one another in confusion. "Cousin Héctor left over an hour ago," one of them said. "Or two hours?"

The first soul that had spoken nodded. " _Sí_. He left well before eleven. I think he was worried about getting home to you on time."

Imelda shut her eyes, trying to ignore the feeling of her metaphorical stomach dropping.

"Did…" Coco stepped forward. "Did he say anything about stopping somewhere along the way?"

Once again the souls looked around at each other. "No, just that he needed to get going."

"He did have a bit to drink, though. Maybe he got lost?"

"Cousin Héctor's been here longer than you have, _prima_! He's not gettin' lost _nowhere_ around here, drunk or not."

" _None_ of you know where he is?" Julio blurted out, interrupting the chatter.

Before anyone could answer, a deafening _roar_ shook the town.

While several of the souls ducked down off of their chairs, one pointed up at the sky with a trembling hand. "N-no, but it looks like someone does!"

Sure enough, Pepita was circling them high above the town, waiting for them to spot her.

"Pepita!" Imelda called, relief washing over her. "We'll meet you at the top of the stairs!"

Turning around, she picked up the hem of her dress and rushed back through the gate, Coco and Julio at her heels.

"Good luck!" " _Adios_!" "Tell Cousin Héctor to not drink too much tequila next time, eh?"

The Riveras were already making their way up the stairs, their progress slowed slightly as they had to watch for rotten planks of wood. "Did Pepita find him already?" Julio asked, stumbling as one of his sandals broke through a damaged step.

"She wouldn't have called for us if she hadn't." Imelda turned her gaze upward, where Pepita was starting to circle back down to meet them.

Evidently the spirit guide was too impatient for them to reach the top of the stairs, and landed heavily on the stone step next to the wooden platform, raising herself up so they could hop down onto her. Imelda and Coco did so with no hesitation, Julio with some. Once her passengers were aboard, Pepita sprung into the air, flying up above the buildings once again.

While Imelda was glad that Pepita had picked up on Héctor's trail so quickly, she couldn't ignore the sick feeling in her midsection. Nor could she ignore the anxiety radiating from her _alebrije_ ; while Coco and Julio took no notice, Imelda could feel the tension in Pepita's muscles, the sharp turns of her wings as she flew.

Something was wrong.

"Can you see him anywhere?" Coco was leaning over, trying to see past Pepita's back, while Julio clung to her tighter.

"Wait for her to land, _mi amor_!"

It was only a minute or so later that Pepita prepared to land. It took her a moment to do so—the streets here were not well-suited for larger _alebrijes_ , and she had to find a place to land without crashing into a wall. But when she did so, her passengers dismounted, and she led them to a narrow alleyway that she could not fit through.

The Riveras peered down into the alley, which was poorly-lit—too dark for them to see all the way down. "You're sure he's down here?" Coco reached up to pat Pepita's head without looking away.

The _alebrije_ gave a distressed _yowl_ in response, pawing at the side of one of the buildings.

Imelda barely suppressed a shudder—she couldn't imagine anything good coming from here, especially with Pepita so upset. It could have just been that she was upset about not being able to fit through the alleyway, but…

Drawing in a breath, Imelda stepped forward, preparing to grab her shoe if things went south. Coco and Julio started to follow her, the former looking concerned and the latter looking ready to fight, but she waved them off. "Stay with Pepita," she said. "I'll handle this."

Coco was about to protest, but Julio grabbed her hand. "Be careful, Mamá," he said.

Imelda took a few steps further as she waited for her vision to adjust to the darkness. "Héctor?" she called. " _¿Estás ahí?_ "

Nothing answered her.

Further down, she noticed that the rest of the alley was filled with garbage—mostly old crates, it looked like—that all but completely blocked the path. That couldn't be right. Where was Héctor?

"Pepita!" She turned back to the entrance again, where she could clearly see her spirit guide thanks to the glowing fur. "Are you sure this is the right place?"

Pepita only gave another distressed cry, pawing at the side of one of the buildings again.

Evidently this was the right place, and that coupled with the fact that she hadn't found Héctor yet meant that something was very, very wrong.

Could he be on the other side of the trash pile? Imelda briefly considered climbing it, but then, why would Pepita have led them to this side of the alley? Looking at the garbage on the ground, she wondered if he could be hiding underneath something… unconscious, perhaps.

Or in pieces.

Pepita's cries were growing more insistent, her scratching more frantic.

" _Hush_ , Pepita," Imelda called back. She lifted up a piece of a broken crate, only to find more garbage underneath.

"Mamá!"

Looking back, Imelda could see Coco pointing up at Pepita, who was still yowling and clawing at the side the building to her left.

...Wait.

Gaze narrowing, Imelda began walking back the way she came. This time she walked closer to the buildings on the side Pepita was pawing at, paying closer attention to them. Some buildings had doorways that led out into the alley, and she'd been ignoring them up till now. But it was so hard to see—

Something shifted in the shadows of one of the doorways, and Imelda's shoe was off in an instant. The figure gave a startled gasp, cringing as it tugged something over its face defensively.

Imelda stayed in attack position for a moment before she recognized the slim build of the figure, and the straw hat he had clutched over his face.

" _Héctor_!" she cried, tension leaving her frame as she returned her shoe. "What in the world are you doing?!"

When he didn't immediately answer, she found her anger from earlier coming back with a vengeance. "We've been looking everywhere for you! What did you think you were doing, worrying us all to final death?!" She threw out her arms in exasperation. "What were you doing, _hiding_ from us all this time? Are you listening to me?"

Imelda waited for him to answer, then paused.

Coco and Julio were already making their way down the alley, but Pepita was still crying out in distress.

Holding out a hand to stop her daughter and son-in-law, Imelda took a step back, trying to get a better look at Héctor in the dark. He was turned away from her, now, still holding the brim of his hat, and… now that she took the time to look, he seemed to be leaning heavily against the wall behind him, keeping weight off of his bad leg. His free arm—his right one—was clutched tightly around his ribcage, his hand tucked under his vest. His chest was heaving, and his breathing was ragged.

"...Héctor?" she said, her voice coming out smaller than she'd intended.

Why wouldn't he _answer_ her?

Brow furrowing, Imelda reached out, holding her hand over his and ignoring his flinch at her touch. Gently she guided his hand upward, moving his hat away from his face.

Héctor finally met her gaze, giving a valiant attempt at one of his apologetic smiles. The dark tear stains on his face and the pain in his eyes did little to sell it.

"S… sorr…"

His voice was strained and near-absent, and he couldn't get out a full word out before he nearly doubled over in a ragged coughing fit, intermixed with whimpers and gasps of pain.

Horrified, Imelda placed an arm over his back and reached out to take his hand, helping him up again as the fit subsided. " _Mi amor_! What happened to you?!" Knowing she wouldn't get an answer, she moved to his left side, draping his arm across her shoulders. " _Vamos_ , let's get you home…"

His limp was noticeably more pronounced, like it had been a few months ago, and he kept his gaze toward the ground. His right arm was still clenched around his ribcage.

"Papá—?!"

Héctor's head shot up at the voice of his daughter. A look of unmistakable relief crossed his features, and Imelda couldn't tell if the sound that left his throat was a laugh or a sob.

Coco was by his side in a moment. "Papá, what's happened?!"

Hesitantly Héctor turned to face her, giving her a similar attempt at the apologetic smile he'd tried on Imelda, more wavery this time.

"Oh, Papá…!" She reached out to wrap her arms around him, only to flinch back when he gave a choked cry of pain.

"Careful, _mija_ ," Imelda said gently. "He's hurt."

But to Imelda's surprise, Héctor shook her off, nearly falling as he bent down to throw his arms around Coco. For a moment Coco was startled, but only for a moment; she quickly, gently returned his embrace, leaning her face into his shoulder. His body was heaving in muted sobs, but somehow Imelda got the feeling they were sobs of relief.

Imelda stood back; whatever the reason for this moment was, she wouldn't interrupt it, though it made something within her ache. But hearing a gasp, she looked up, catching Julio's gaze. Silently he looked from her, to Héctor and Coco—or more specifically, something behind Coco, which he stared at in consternation. Imelda crept carefully around the two, trying to avoid disturbing them, and her metaphorical stomach gave a twist.

Héctor's arms were wrapped around his daughter, but only one of them had a hand attached.

When she looked back at Julio, he gave her a nod before heading over to the doorway Héctor had been standing in, searching around the ground. Casting another glance back at Héctor and Coco, Imelda walked back toward the pile of junk that blocked the alley, hoping to find the missing appendage. It wasn't uncommon for Héctor's bones to come loose, or even to get lost for a short period; nearly-forgotten as he had been, he had few memories to keep his bones strung together.

Kneeling down, she felt around the ground; it was too dark to see very well, but she would be able to differentiate bone from cobblestone by touch alone.

But she couldn't help but wonder… Over the past month, Héctor had been _better._ He came apart less frequently, and his bones that had remained broken for years were finally mending. Even if he'd detached his hand, what would keep him from just summoning it back?

Imelda's brow furrowed as she turned over another broken box (for the second time, she realized in annoyance). She didn't like the picture these hints were painting.

Finally she stood up, heading back toward Julio to see if he'd had any luck. For a moment her metaphorical heart leapt when she saw him lift something up, only to sink again when she realized it was not a hand, but a guitar case. He set it back down, sighing.

"This isn't right, Mamá," he whispered, looking back to Héctor and Coco; his father-in-law's sobs had turned to shallow wheezes, and Coco was whispering something to him. "You can't just _lose_ your hand."

"I know." She crossed her arms tightly, looking back toward the junk she'd searched through.

There was a pause.

Julio shuffled his feet. "Do you think someone…?

Imelda's jaw clenched, her fists balled at her sides.

A shaky gasp pulled her back to the situation at hand. She strode back over to Héctor, who was fighting to stand up again, Coco helping him balance in spite of his bad leg. Imelda extended her hand to him, and after a moment, he let her pull him back upright. _Lo siento_ , he mouthed, and she shook her head, brushing his hair away from his face.

Meanwhile, Julio came up behind Coco, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. He stared down at his wife for a moment before turning to Héctor. "Did… someone do this to you?"

Héctor blinked slowly, his head dipping. It wasn't a nod, but it told them enough.

Imelda's ribcage tightened; somehow, the confirmation of what she'd already known only made it worse. Fury burned within her, fierce enough to nearly explode, but she had a century of experience in keeping it tamed when she needed to. Instead, she squeezed Héctor's shoulder. "Are they still here?"

Héctor shook his head.

"Who _did_ this to you?" Coco asked, her voice breaking. She scrubbed at her eyesockets with the heel of her hand. "Do you know…?"

After a pause, Héctor shook his head again, shuddering.

The other three exchanged glances, each reading a different expression in the other's eyes: grief, anger, and suspicion.

But they couldn't keep standing in the alleyway. Slowly, Imelda being mindful of Héctor's limp, they made their way out into the street. There they met Pepita, who wasted no time in sniffing over Héctor and growling.

"She's not angry at you," Imelda said quickly. "Pepita, can you smell anything on him?"

The _alebrije's_ ears folded back, and she dipped her head. They'd been gone for some time, then.

With a quiet sigh, Imelda turned her attention back to Héctor. Placing one hand firmly on his shoulder, she stepped away from him, hoping to get a better look at his condition now that they were out of the alley and in the light of her _alebrije's_ glow.

Immediately the inside of her ribcage ached at the sight of his own ribs, which now bore several new cracks. Two of his upper ribs were cracked all the way through, the gaps visible as his chest heaved. Héctor kept his head lowered, but Imelda was starting to suspect it wasn't entirely out of shame. She reached out, gently lifting his chin, and gasped.

Skeletons didn't have any muscles or organs that could be damaged, but hurting the closest part of their bones could sometimes cause a similar effect. She'd suspected something must have happened to his upper vertebrae, but she wasn't prepared for the sight of deep gouges in the bone, as though something had tried to claw his metaphorical throat out.

No wonder he couldn't speak.

Once again, her chest burned in anger at whoever—or _what_ ever—had done this to him, but there was nothing to be done. Not now—Héctor had said that his attackers were gone, and she had no reason to believe he would say anything in protection of them. The most important thing right now was to get him home, and get him properly treated.

Moving her hand from his chin, she cupped the side of his face, and he leaned into her touch. But still he had that apologetic look in his eyes, his mouth forming words he couldn't speak: _Lo sien—_

" _Basta_." Imelda shook her head, pulling her hand away. "Don't you _dare_ blame yourself for this. Now come, let's get you home."

Pepita was already bowed to the ground, waiting for her passengers to board. Imelda turned Héctor so that he was facing the _alebrije_ , and began to help him onto her back. It was a bit of a challenge when he only had one hand, but they managed. She sat behind him, her arms carefully wrapped around his midsection.

It was a moment before Julio and Coco stepped out of the alley; while Imelda had been looking Héctor over, they'd turned back to retrieve something. As they returned, Coco carried something large in her arms. "Papá's guitar," she said, as she and Julio hefted the guitar case onto Pepita's back.

Héctor sagged in Imelda's grasp.

Imelda shut her eyes for a moment before nudging her spirit guide with her heels. "Let's go home, Pepita."

And the _alebrije_ gave a lurch, taking off into the night.

* * *

As they flew back toward the Rivera _hacienda_ , Coco found herself staring down at the guitar case she held in her arms. Out of curiosity, she set it down in front of her, unlatching it and opening it carefully.

The guitar inside was completely undamaged.


	6. Silence and Streetlamps

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Héctor continues to have a very rough night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hiya folks! So if you've gone back to earlier chapters, you may have noticed that I made some edits. You can thank Cassie from the Coco discord server I'm in for helping me fix the Spanish! ...You can also thank Jaywings for beta-reading everything, which she's been doing from the beginning, and I somehow forgot to credit her. Whoops...

Even in the safety of his room, sitting amongst the sheets and pillows of the bed he'd been sleeping in for roughly two months now, Héctor felt… uncomfortable, to put it mildly.

Part of it was being alone. Yes, he normally slept by himself (Imelda had not asked him to share her room, and he would not push it), but after what happened tonight, he _ached_ to be with someone else.

Not that no one had offered to be with him—Coco had begged it, in fact, but he'd shaken his head until it hurt. It was his fault he'd gotten into this mess in the first place, and he wouldn't have Coco staying up all night because of it. She had been up late as it was, having to rush out with Imelda and Julio and Pepita…

He supposed he shouldn't have been surprised they'd found him. While small part of him had even hoped that they would, most of him had just wanted to just crawl back to his old shack in Shantytown and stay there until he somehow healed, just so his family wouldn't have to see him like this, so they wouldn't have to worry about him, or what had happened to him… He'd burdened them enough already. This was too much.

The other reason for his discomfort could be blamed on his present condition. His ribcage was in constant pain; he'd known it before when he'd lost one of his floating ribs years and years ago, and again when he'd cracked another rib all the way through, but he'd gotten used to it. The pain (though it never left, never healed) had grown dull over time, but those wounds had not happened simultaneously.

But now? Now, breathing was agony. With two more ribs snapped through and countless others cracked, he couldn't even lie down without feeling like he would choke to death, if that were possible. Instead, he sat upright, half a dozen pillows at his back.

He'd tried leaning his head back, to either side, or forward, but any movement he made aggravated his cervical vertebrae. It seemed no matter what he did, he couldn't ignore the stabbing, burning pain where his throat used to be.

In a fit of exhausted frustration, Héctor reached up with his right arm to grasp his skull, and was instantly punished with a dozen jumbled sensations of pain shooting through his absent hand. He gave a strained yelp, immediately followed by a whimper at the resulting pain it brought to his chest and throat.

Was he not even able to _react_ to pain anymore without bringing more pain on himself?

Shutting his eyes tightly, he focused on breathing deeply—bad idea, _bad idea_ —on breathing _evenly_ as he waited for the agonized sensations in his missing hand to die down. They never left entirely, but they grew less intense, at least, as he forced himself to avoid any attempts at moving it.

Moving it…

Héctor looked down at his right arm, where the tape covered the reopened crack, and followed it down to where his hand should have been before quickly turning away, shutting his eyes tightly again. He felt a twist where his gut would be as he desperately tried to shut out any thoughts about _that_ , and what it would mean for him. The present was hard enough to deal with as it was—it hurt too much to think about the future.

 _Don't think about it_ , as his thoughts wandered to the guitar the twins had bought him, to the notebook Rosita had picked out for him. _Don't think about it_ , as his mind still recalled the feeling of strings beneath his fingertips, the way they cut into him as he played.

He grit his teeth, bringing up his left hand to cover his eyes, swallowing back the sobs that threatened to wreck his chest and throat all over again.

_Don't think about it._

An eternity passed before the pain calmed in his hand, and he willed himself to relax, only to cringe when he tried to lean his head back. Right, that's what he'd been trying to fix in the first place. Biting back a sigh, he reached up with his left hand, grasping just beneath his jaw, and lifted his head off of his shoulders. After a moment of deliberation, he placed his head off to his left side, keeping his hand resting on it. Sure enough, it did ease the pain in his vertebrae, at least a little.

 _Seems like losing your head can be a good thing once in a while_ , he thought, and his chest heaved in a laugh that quickly turned into a moan. _Ay_ , he was too tired for this…

But… therein lied his other problem.

Héctor had briefly tried to sleep on the flight home—not that flying hundreds of meters in the air on the back of a giant _alebrije_ had been the most relaxing thing, but he'd been too exhausted to care about much else. Being unconscious had felt like a reasonable way to avoid the pain he was in.

Except his mind hadn't quite agreed with that.

 _He couldn't move, couldn't breathe, they were holding him down, his head was wrenched back, it_ hurt _, he couldn't move, he couldn't breathe, he couldn't_ breathe—

" _St—_ kkkkkhhhh— _st—"_

" _Hm? Speak up, Héctor."_

"D-de—ggghhkkk—ja… _"_

" _You want them to stop?"_

" _S—_ gghhhh…! _"_

" _That could be arranged. I believe we can still reach your daughter if you want to—"_

" _NO!_ _"_

The last word he'd said out loud, startling himself and everyone on-board. He'd nearly fallen off Pepita, then, but Imelda had caught him, keeping a firmer grasp on him for the remainder of the flight home.

He hadn't slept since then, and he was afraid to now.

It wasn't just for the pain it caused him, either, though that had been part of it. The shout had felt like another knife tearing through his vertebrae, and he did _not_ want a repeat of that.

But more than that… he'd rather forget the events of the past few hours, and apparently his subconscious mind disagreed with him. He didn't want to think about why, exactly, he'd wound up dumped out into an alleyway with his throat torn up and one hand missing, nor did he want to think about the _cabrón_ that did this to him.

Héctor was not a stranger to nightmares—especially not ones that gleefully rehashed his more painful memories for him. They were one of the few things he couldn't run from, unless he wanted to avoid sleep entirely, which he had tried. It never ended well. When he did sleep, he would be greeted with a pain like a bullet to his abdomen, the taste of something bitter in the back of his throat, the feeling of his body dropping like a rock onto the cobblestone; the overwhelming smell of _cempasúchil_ , maddeningly close by but just out of reach; the sound of Imelda shouting in anger, of Coco, crying out for her papá…

At least in the past couple months, he could wake up with the assurance that all of that was behind him, mostly. Coco had remembered him and passed on his stories, and had assured him that Miguel now had a photo of him to put on the _ofrenda_. He was with his family, now, and Imelda… well, they were working on it.

Imelda... _Coco..._!

Terror briefly fluttered through Héctor's chest at the thought of what had nearly happened to her, followed immediately by anger. _Ernesto..._ he thought, grinding his teeth. He couldn't believe Ernesto had tried to—!

No, yes, he could. After all, Ernesto had tried to kill Miguel... so what would stop him from going after Coco? Or Imelda? Or any of his newfound family?

...Well, that was something he knew the answer to, at least.

Silence.

" _You're free to talk about this, of course. I want nothing more to do with you." Ernesto had shaken the box he held, causing Héctor to yelp. "But your_ family _… they still hold a great interest to me. If you decide that the media or police should know about this, perhaps I'll have to see about getting a new pair of shoes for the interview, hm?"_

A shiver rippled through his bones.

Even _without_ the threat, he couldn't tell Imelda who had done this to him—he couldn't tell her that it had been _him_. If he knew his wife—and he did—she would go after him herself. Or maybe even Coco would. Or Oscar, or Felipe, or Julio... He had no doubt that any of them would go charging after Ernesto if they ever found out, but they wouldn't have the element of surprise on them this time. Ernesto would know they were coming, and…

The thought crossed Héctor's mind of Ernesto hurting Imelda or Coco like he had with him tonight, and his body heaved in a retch.

No. He wouldn't let that happen to them. Never.

_Never._

Something heavy creaked against the roof over his head, and Héctor gave a start. Carefully he scooped up his head, setting it back on his neck again with a wince, and looked up. Dust drifted down from the ceiling in time with the creaks as whatever-it-was got closer to the wall…

...the wall with the window.

The window directly next to his bed.

Drawing in a panicked gasp and swallowing back a whimper, Héctor scrambled off to the side, trying to put as much distance between himself and the window as he could. He gave a choked cry as he tumbled off the bed, and did not get up; maybe they would think he wasn't sleeping in here, or that he was still hiding in the alley.

 _Go away_ , he thought desperately, chest heaving and bones rattling. _I haven't said anything! I_ can't _! You know that! You've already taken what you want, Ernesto, go away, go away...!_

" _Rrreow._ "

It took Héctor a moment longer than it should have to process the sound.

...That was not Ernesto.

Inwardly chiding himself, he peeked out from over the bed, and jumped back again at the sight of two enormous yellow eyes staring at him through the window.

" _Reow_."

Shakily he pulled himself up to his knees, leaning on the mattress. Now that the sight was no longer startling the dead daylights out of him, he could clearly see Pepita staring at him upside-down through the window. Seeing that he was no longer panicking, she gave a rumbling _purr_ that shook the window frame.

Ah, yes, wonderful. Two enormous streetlamps shining through his window accompanied by that horrible rumbling and rattling was _sure_ to help him sleep.

Or maybe she was trying to keep him awake?

Either way, he wasn't about to spend the rest of the night on the floor. With an annoyed huff, he reached out to pull himself back onto the bed— _wrong arm, wrong arm, WRONG ARM—_

He fell back, _hard_ , to the floor, clutching his right arm to his chest as the phantom pains seized him. _Ay_ , what was the point? He was never going to get to sleep, anyway, not feeling like he'd been hit by a train while his hand had been left under the wheels. Not when his mind was so eager to replay the events that led to his being in that condition if he chose to fall asleep.

Not when some _estúpido alebrije_ was being as absolutely noisy and bright as possible—

The sound of frantic scrabbling drew him out of his fog of misery, and he pushed himself up on his left arm just in time to see Pepita's enormous bulk tumble off of the roof and _whoosh_ past his window.

_THUD._

Curiosity briefly pushed through his agony as he carefully climbed back up into his bed and peered outside.

Pepita was quickly licking her paw and rubbing her face, evidently having landed on her feet after dropping three stories. She set her paw down and looked up at his window again, giving a distressed _yowl_ before lying down in the dirt. Her enormous, lamp-like eyes were still staring at him through the dark.

Sighing, Héctor leaned back against his pillows, and winced at the now-familiar pain in his throat. He was too tired to try to cover himself with the sheets, now, and too tired to lift his head off to ease the pain in his neck.

If Pepita's plan had been to send him through a panicked adrenaline rush in order to crash shortly afterward, it had worked. Part of him was still fighting against the idea of sleep, not wanting to revisit the events of a few hours ago, but his exhaustion was very insistently telling that part of him to _shut up_.

He was too tired to deal with anything tonight. Whatever happened next—whatever his family decided to do with him, whatever he would do about his hand, whatever they would do about Ernesto—would have to wait until tomorrow.

The aches and pains of his bones, both present and not, began to fade as sleep finally overtook him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're wondering, the noises Pepita makes here sound like [this.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0tmCIsSpvC8)


	7. Knock, Knock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Imelda continues to have a very rough night, and her morning isn't much better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hiya folks! Uhhh... I don't have much to say here other than that man, I hope I can focus to work on this fic more this week, around watching the movie and bonus features roughly 5000 times starting tomorrow.

Héctor wasn't the only one who had trouble sleeping.

Imelda lay awake in her bed, staring into the darkness of her room. The dense curtains hung over her windows, keeping any light from getting in. Whether her eyes were open or shut, all she saw was pitch black. But no matter what she did, her mind was too full to allow her to sleep.

She was no stranger to sleepless nights. She'd had many of them when she was alive, lying awake as she wondered why her husband was taking so long to send his next letter. Other times, she would be rocking Coco as the child sobbed and cried out for her father. Still others, she would be stooped over her desk, trying to figure out how to stretch her meager savings to feed both herself and her daughter as she got her business started.

Even in death, insomnia was her constant companion. Sometimes she would lay in bed, wondering if everything was all right with her living family during the year of silence between _Dia de Muertos_ visits. Sometimes she would find herself thinking about her business in both worlds and how she would continue to provide for her family as more of them arrived from the other side. Others, she would be trying to ignore the feeling of her arms aching to hold someo—something…

Now her mind was filled with thoughts of what had happened a few hours ago, and what could have possibly happened before that.

Imelda wasn't sure how much Héctor would be willing to talk about, if she could figure out how to get him to communicate at all. But what she _did_ know was that he'd been attacked—Héctor himself had confirmed that—and he didn't know who had done this to him. Turning the ideas over in her head, she frowned. Robberies did happen in the Land of the Dead, sadly—some criminals never broke their habits even after death—but nothing Héctor had on him had been taken. Not even the new guitar that Óscar and Felipe had purchased for him.

No, he hadn't been robbed… he had been…

Images of his broken ribs, his slashed vertebrae, and his missing hand flashed through her mind.

Hot anger and sick worry churned where her stomach used to be.

Whoever had done this to him, they would _pay._ She didn't know _why_ they had done this but that hardly mattered. Nothing would stop her from beating them with a shoe until they were as broken up as Héctor, or worse.

Héctor…

They'd gotten him home sometime around one thirty in the morning. By that point, everyone had been utterly exhausted, but Imelda hadn't been about to let him sit on the couch all night. But his room was on the third floor, and he could barely walk, let alone make it up two flights of stairs. Ignoring his protests, she'd scooped him up into her arms, carrying him up to the third floor. Julio and Coco had followed several steps behind, pretending not to see.

Even after that, just getting him to bed had been a challenge. At first she'd laid him on his back, but he'd given a hoarse cry of pain. Julio had been the one to rush out to grab some extra pillows, which they piled up at the head of Héctor's bed so he could sleep sitting up.

By then, nearly everyone was ready to sleep, themselves, but poor Coco was still heartbroken, begging to stay by her father's side. Héctor had only shaken his head—he probably wanted to be alone, and Imelda could hardly blame him. So they'd left him in his room, and retreated to their own bedrooms.

That had been over an hour ago.

Heaving a sigh, Imelda slid out from under her thick quilt and strode over to the curtains, drawing them to see out her door to the balcony. The district they were in was quiet this time of night, but the city lights twinkled like stars in the distance. After a moment she opened the door, stepping out onto the balcony to drink in the sight, breathe in the cool night air.

The peaceful scene brought her no comfort tonight.

Still, she stayed outside for a few more minutes, hoping the stillness would settle over her and calm her racing mind enough to sleep. But even as she looked out over the balcony, her mind only saw Héctor, huddled up against a doorframe, trying to make his broken form invisible in the shadows. Her hands, gripping the balcony wall, only felt the rotten wood and deteriorating cardboard that she'd searched through in the alley.

Finally Imelda stepped back into her room, rubbing her forehead.

This was not working.

But she had always been a woman of logic. She could figure out how to fix this—she had to, if she wanted to get enough sleep to be able to tackle their problems in the morning. Her thoughts were constantly drifting back to Héctor, so if she could just check on him, perhaps that would be enough to ease her mind. That decided, she stepped out into the hallway, heading for Héctor's room.

Apparently she hadn't been the only one with that idea.

Imelda stopped before she reached the end of the hall, surprised to see two figures sitting up against Héctor's door. While it was difficult to make out their faces in the dark, she didn't have to flip on the lightswitch to recognize them.

Coco and Julio were dozing with their backs to the door, hands linked. They hadn't been there when Imelda had left; she could only assume that they had come out here after attempting (and, evidently, failing) to sleep in their own room.

It wasn't hard to imagine why.

No matter how old she got, Coco was still her daughter, and when her Coco's heart ached, so did Imelda's. Part of her wished she could sit with Coco and comfort her, as she'd done when Coco was only a child, but she couldn't do that now without waking her up. But maybe…

Putting her hand to her chin in thought, Imelda turned around, walking quietly back to her room, and came back shortly with a blanket in her arms. She approached her daughter and son-in-law, careful not to wake them, and draped the blanket over their sleeping forms. They would probably have a bit of stiffness in their spines in the morning, but at least they wouldn't get cold, now.

Imelda stepped back to look over the two, a faint smile crossing her features. It faded when she realized she couldn't check on Héctor without waking either of them.

Well… that was all right. Given she couldn't hear any noises coming from that room (and given Pepita was keeping watch outside) Héctor was certainly asleep and safe now, especially with his daughter and son-in-law guarding the door. He would be fine, at least for the night.

Returning to her room, Imelda slipped back into her bed, finding her mind a bit more at ease. Tomorrow was going to be hard, but she would be able to handle it.

All of them would.

* * *

Imelda woke at 6 AM sharp.

Immediately she felt exhaustion seeping into her bones; two hours of sleep was not enough for anyone. She didn't even need to be up this early, she realized—it was Saturday, the workshop was closed, and it was Victoria's turn to run the sales desk today. Héctor wouldn't be up yet, and Coco and Julio would likely be sleeping in, too. She had no reason to be awake.

Heaving a sigh, she rolled to her side, willing herself to go back to sleep. When this failed, she slid out of bed, keeping her curtains closed but opening the balcony door a crack. She then lay back in bed, listening to the sounds of the world outside slowly springing to life… as "alive" as the Land of the Dead could be, anyway.

Pepita snored in the courtyard. A bicycle zipped by, preceding the _clank_ of the newspaper hitting their front gate. In the skies above, birdlike _alebrijes_ sang their discordant melodies. A tremendous _crash_ shook the floor, immediately followed by an echoed cry of " _¡Lo siento!_ "

Imelda groaned, sitting up as she listened to the muffled sounds of her brothers' rapid conversation in the room below hers. No point in staying in bed now.

It didn't take her long to slip out of her nightgown, change into a fresh dress, and put up her hair. As she stepped out the door, she was immediately greeted by Óscar and Felipe, who practically bowled her over.

" _Buenos dias_ Imelda!"

"Is Héctor awake?"

Stepping back, Imelda put her hands on her hips. "I don't think anyone _isn't_ awake, after all that noise you two were making."

" _¡Lo siento!_ " Óscar held up his hands in apology.

"We were just excited!" Felipe resumed. "Just last night, we—"

"—finished our prototype guitar attachment, and—"

"—we wanted to know when—"

"—Héctor was ready to try it out!"

Imelda opened her mouth to reply, and then their words sank in.

_Guitar attachment._

Once again, the image flashed through her mind of Héctor's current condition, and her heart sank. It hadn't even occurred to her until now.

Seeing their sister's expression change, the twins exchanged confused glances. "Is everything all right?" they asked in unison.

Imelda turned away, waving them off. "Go on back downstairs. If you see anyone else, let them know that there will be a family meeting before the shop opens." She could sense her brothers' unease, but out of the corner of her eye she saw them nod at her before heading downstairs.

She would have to tell the others what happened—there was no getting around that. It wasn't a conversation she was looking forward to, but it had to be done.

But first, she had to check on Héctor.

Heading back down the hallway, Imelda found Coco and Julio awake and conversing in hushed voices. When they saw her approaching, they looked up. " _Hola_ , Mamá Imelda," Julio whispered with an embarrassed smile, rising to his feet.

Coco stood up beside him, her face sullen as she looked to the door. "I…" She swallowed. "I didn't want to leave him."

" _Lo sé,_ " Imelda murmured, placing a hand on her daughter's shoulder.

"I th-thought I could—" her voice caught, and she swallowed again. Julio squeezed her hand.

"I'll take care of him, _mija_ ," Imelda whispered. "You two go downstairs, and we'll talk to the others soon."

"Come, Socorro," Julio said, folding up their blanket and setting it aside. He wrapped his arm around her shoulders, giving one of them a squeeze. "Let's go get ready, and make some coffee. I think we'll need it, _sí_?"

As Imelda watched her daughter and son-in-law head back to their room, she mentally went over the things she would say to her family. _Héctor arrived home late last night—_ no, that was too accusatory. _Héctor was hurt by—_ but she didn't know who yet, did she?

Heaving a sigh, she turned to face the door. She would cross that bridge later; for now, she had to check on the subject of the conversation.

If she listened closely, she could just make out the sound of his breathing, intermixed with faint whimpers. Had he slept through the racket Óscar and Felipe had made? Or perhaps he _was_ awake, and trying to will himself back to sleep, as she had been earlier.

One way to find out.

Raising her hand, she rapped her knuckles twice against the door.

"Héc—"

A strangled _scream_ cut her off, followed by the clatter of bone hitting wood.

Horrified, Imelda jerked away from the door. " _Héctor_?!"

The only sounds that answered her were hoarse yells intermixed with ragged coughs and moans, and bone scratching against wood.

"What's going on?!" came Rosita's voice from the bottom of the staircase.

"Is that Héctor making all that noise?" Victoria was out, too.

She ignored them for now, swiftly opening the door and slipping inside. Before she shut the door, she heard Julio's voice reassuring the others, but his words were lost amidst the noises from the skeleton in front of her.

It was dark—the light was off and dawn hadn't broken yet—but she could see Héctor flailing about on the floor next to his bed. His voice had given out entirely now, his muted screaming sounding more like gagging. More ragged coughs shook his entire frame, and strained whimpers squeezed their way out of his non-existent throat. On top of that were the sounds of his bones clattering and his bare feet pounding against the wooden floor as he frantically tried to back up into the wall. While his hair was messy and partially covered his eyes, Imelda noticed quickly that his vision was unfocused, unseeing.

"Héctor!" She rushed to his side and stooped down. "Héctor, _tranquilo_. _Cálmate_."

When he didn't immediately respond to her presence, she reached out to grab his shoulder. To her surprise, his left arm shot out, his hand snagging her arm and gripping it tightly. Startled, but no less determined, she reached out with her own left hand to grasp his.

" _Tranquilo_ , Héctor," she repeated, rubbing her phalanges over his metacarpals. "I'm here."

Héctor had stopped struggling, his body stilling and his breaths coming short and quick. He blinked once, twice, before finally meeting her gaze. At first he looked stunned, and then a shaky, embarrassed grin crossed his face. He gave a huff of a laugh, and then all at once seemed to realize the pain he was in, and slumped back against the wall.

His hand was still gripping her arm, though.

"You were having a bad dream," Imelda said, brushing his hair away from his eyesockets.

Immediately she regretted her choice of words when she saw a fleeting expression of relief cross Héctor's face. He reached up with his right hand to rub at his throat, only to give a muted yelp. He looked down at where his hand should have been, and, if it were possible, seemed to wilt further.

No, _that_ wasn't a dream, unfortunately.

"I'm sorry I startled you," she went on, reaching down in an offer to help him up. It took him a moment to take it, moving his hand from her arm to her open palm. She eased him back onto his feet, and he stood, albeit wobbly. "Maybe I'll have to knock a bit more softly next time."

Héctor only shook his head, dismissively waving his right arm at her and flinching. His left hand twitched in hers; she suspected that he wanted to use it, but didn't want to let go of her.

It wasn't often that they held hands, after all.

Sighing, Imelda guided him back to his bed, and he plopped onto it. Part of her still wanted to ask him for more details—especially a description of his attacker, if he could remember it—but it was pointless when he couldn't talk. Maybe she could convince him to write something out later, but seeing the way his back hunched, the way his eyes had trouble staying open, she decided that could wait for another time.

"Would you like some coffee or tea?" she offered instead, and he glanced at her tiredly. Realizing her mistake, she cleared her throat. "Tea?"

He shook his head.

"Coffee?"

He gave a short nod.

Finally she released her grasp on Héctor's hand, but it took him a moment to let go. He seemed to wilt again, and his hand went to his neck, rubbing it. As far as she could tell, his vertebrae looked no better than they had last night—being remembered didn't necessarily mean he would heal instantly.

And whenever he came out of his room, the rest of the family would see those scars, those broken bones, that missing hand.

Imelda looked Héctor in the eyes. "I'm going to tell the others what happened."

Immediately his head snapped up, and he looked at her in horror.

Imelda could only roll her eyes. "Did you want everyone to just sit around wondering why you won't leave your room?"

The look he gave seemed to say _yes, that would be preferable._

"They would find out eventually. I'm going to let them know now, and get it over with."

Jaw set anxiously, Héctor held up his hand in a "hold on" gesture. (Or a "wait, wait, wait, wait," gesture, in his case, Imelda mused.) He tugged at his vest, fighting with it with his one hand to button it up. Next he reached up to his necktie (which seemed to bear a few slash marks) and carefully worked it looser before tugging it upward, wincing all the while.

By this point Imelda had figured out what he was trying to do, and she spread her arms out. " _Basta_! You are _not_ going to try to hide your injuries from them."

Héctor's foot stamped against the floor with a _bang_ as he glared at the floor. "Y-you ca—a—" he managed to wheeze out, voice barely a squeak, before doubling over in a fit of ragged coughing.

Part of her wanted to place a comforting hand on his back, but the rest of her kept still, regarding him sternly. " _Héctor_ ," she said, once his fit subsided. "If you are going to be a part of this family, you _will not_ keep secrets from it."

All at once, Héctor went still. His chest stopped heaving, his hand stopped clutching at his throat, and he stared blankly down at the floorboards.

Imelda hadn't expected that reaction, but she would take it over his stubbornness. "I _will_ tell them, then," she said.

He nodded.

"And you _won't_ try to hide your injuries."

He nodded again.

She would have left it at that and headed straight downstairs, but something made her pause.

Héctor was trembling.

Sternness reluctantly ebbing away, Imelda placed a hand on his shoulder blade, rubbing it gently. "I'm not angry at you for what happened last night." She could feel him shaking beneath her palm. "No one is, and no one will be. I don't want you keeping secrets because I… _we_ care about you. _¿Entiendes?_ "

He nodded shakily, and scrubbed at his eyesockets.

Sighing, she sat next to him, wrapping her arm around his shoulders and allowing him to lean into her side. For the moment, she held him in silence, occasionally rubbing his shoulder.

But dawn was creeping closer, and she couldn't make her family wait all morning.

"The sooner everyone knows what happened," she said, "the sooner we can work together to help you."

Héctor nodded again; he wasn't trembling quite so much, now.

With that, Imelda rose to her feet, stepping toward the door. She cast one last look at Héctor before she slipped out, finding that he'd finally raised his head to watch her.

She chose to ignore the dampness around his eyesockets.


	8. A Family Meeting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Rivera family decides what to do about the situation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hiya folks! How 'bout those Oscar wins last night? MAN! I'm still reeling from how amazing that was.
> 
> Well, semi-bad news here... My energy levels have taken a nosedive lately, meaning I've been having trouble finding the energy to write. As a result, my buffer is now gone. Whoops. But... I'm gonna still try my best to update every Monday! But if I can't... bear with me, okay? I don't plan on giving up on this fic! I WILL finish it, even if it takes me longer than I expected. Worst case scenario, I'll have to start posting the chapters as I finish them, which might mean longer chapters. (Seriously, I don't usually do chapters this short... it feels weird to post chapters less than 4k words long.) But I WILL FINISH THIS!

The coffee in the mug she held had long since gone cold.

Mamá had told them everything—everything they knew, anyway. The realization that Papá had been hours late (and he'd _never_ been late before), the flight from home to Shantytown to the alley… and finding Papá, sans one of his hands and with no knowledge of who attacked him—she recounted it all, with Julio hesitantly adding details here and there. The only thing they left out was how Papá had wept on Coco's shoulder, something she herself still recalled with confusion.

Now they stood in the living room in silence, Julio keeping one arm around her as they watched their family's reactions.

Tio Óscar and Tio Felipe kept glancing from each other to their sister, looking more and more horrified when Imelda's serious expression did not falter. Victoria's arms were folded tightly across her chest, her jaw set and her eyes narrowed. Finally, Rosita's hands were covering her mouth, and she looked like she was on the verge of tears.

She was the first to speak. "But—" she stammered, finally pulling her hands down and wringing them. "But who would do this? Why would—"

"It's obvious, isn't it?" Victoria snapped. Everyone looked to her in surprise. "He was probably attacked by a crazed fan. They don't dare come by here, so of course they'd jump him in an alley."

"But Victoria!" Tio Felipe interjected.

"Why would one of his fans try to _hurt_ him?" Tio Óscar finished.

She eyed them over her glasses. "I didn't say it was one of _his_ fans."

Coco scowled. She'd been told most of the story when she'd arrived—what had happened between her Papá and Ernesto de la Cruz on their last tour, and the events that had transpired two months ago. The media had successfully been chased away from their _hacienda_ by the time she got here, but she'd heard stories about that, too. Once, she'd even rushed out with her Mamá when her father had gotten cornered by a reporter out in town.

But the media hadn't been the only problem. Papá had "fans" of sorts—typically curious souls who wanted to hear more of his songs, more of his singing, more of his story. They were mostly harmless, and Papá would share a few words with them so long as they weren't too invasive (which could sometimes be the case, unfortunately). But alongside them were fans of a different sort.

Fans of de la Cruz.

There weren't as many of them now, but they existed—including ones that were in complete and utter denial over what the man had done. She'd only encountered one once, while she was out at the market with her father, and… well, Papá had had quite the time holding her back.

"That… _would_ explain why he didn't know who it was," Julio said, drawing Coco out of her thoughts. When she turned to him, he was staring at the floor, brow furrowed in thought.

Her uncles, meanwhile, were immediately talking. "But to hurt him _that_ badly—"

"—and to steal his _hand_?"

"Why would they _do_ that?!" they cried simultaneously.

"Probably for the same reasons they would deny video footage of a man trying to murder a living child," Mamá cut in, and the temperature of the room seemed to drop a few degrees. "Or for the same reasons they don't _care_."

The room fell into silence again, other than Rosita's sniffling.

While Coco still felt sick thinking about what had happened to her Papá, she could also feel an anger burning in her ribcage. How could someone be so ready to defend a murderer that they would go out of their way to hurt his victim?

_Because of music_ , said a dark voice in her head, and she shuddered. _They loved de la Cruz's music, so they hurt the one who silenced it. It's because of the music._

Coco drew her arm around her husband, leaning into him, and he leaned into her. Slowly, subtly they rocked back and forth—not a dance, but not without rhythm.

_It's not music_ , she told herself. _It's because of terrible people. Not because of music._

The mantra that had taken hold of her family—even if she'd never, ever truly believed it herself—was not easily rid from her mind. And looking around the room, she could tell the rest of her family was likely thinking the same thing.

"...Oh! His hand!" Rosita cried suddenly, and everyone looked to her. "If he lost his hand, how can he play…?"

Even without a throat, Coco could feel it tighten. She hadn't considered that—how could her Papá play music with only one hand? How could he sing with his throat torn up?

"That was likely their aim," Victoria said. "If it _was_ a crazed fan that went after him, it was probably revenge for 'silencing' _that_ man."

"He hasn't been silenced!" Felipe's hands clenched at his sides.

Óscar glared. "He hasn't even been caught yet!"

"O-oh, Mamá," Julio said, taking his hat off and fidgeting with it. "That reminds me… Shouldn't we go to the police?"

Their daughter turned to face them in surprise. "You didn't before?"

"No, _mija_." Coco rubbed her arm in shame, knowing full-well that what she was about to say was a poor excuse. "It was a shock to see the state Papá was in. We were caught up in trying to get him home, and—"

"It doesn't matter what our excuses were," Mamá cut in, gently this time. "What's important is that we do it now. Pepita should be able to find the spot where he was attacked again."

Though he looked wary at the mention of Pepita, Julio nodded. "I'll go with you," he said. "The police will probably want statements from us."

"I'll go too," Coco said. "Papá needs our help."

"He _does_ need our help, which is why you should stay here." Mamá stepped over to her, placing a hand on her shoulder and adding quietly, "If anyone can get him to give any more information, it's _you_ , _mija_."

While Coco's first instinct was to go with Mamá anyway, she knew her mother was right, in this case. Besides that, she'd been wanting to see her Papá again. She gave her mother a determined nod.

"I need to head to the shop," Victoria said, glancing at the clock, "but I'll be sure to keep an eye out for shady customers." Grabbing the keys to the shop off of a hook on the wall, she walked out.

"I'll make _pobre_ Héctor some breakfast," Rosita said, already on her way to the kitchen. "He needs to eat if he wants to get better!"

"He _needs_ a doctor," Tio Óscar said, eying his brother.

"But he won't _want_ one," Tio Felipe finished, returning the look.

Coco looked to her uncles in confusion; clearly there was a story there she had yet to hear.

Mamá rolled her eyes. "Good luck with that. Julio, are you ready?"

" _Sí_ , Mamá Imelda," he replied, tugging his hat over his head. Wrapping his arm around Coco, he pulled her in for a kiss. "Don't worry, _mi amor_. We'll get this worked out."

With that, he and Mamá Imelda stepped out the door, leaving Coco with her uncles. She looked down at her coffee mug, getting an idea, and headed for the kitchen. Hearing her uncles follow her, however, she glanced back. "Why do you think Papá won't want to see a doctor?" she asked.

"We don't _think_ so."

"We _know_ so!"

"Felipe, remember that time he broke his tooth—"

"And he tried to get away with wearing a handkerchief over his face?"

"And Imelda had to drag him by the ear to the dentist?"

"Oh—or that time he—he sprained his ankle…!"

"During a _performance_?! _¡Sí!_ He tried to do the rest of the performance—"

" _ON ONE FOOT!_ " they finished together, and immediately broke down into fits of laughter.

During all this, Coco had dumped out her old coffee, retrieved a clean mug, and poured some hot coffee for her Papá. She grinned at her uncles' laughter, but her face fell when she saw Rosita look up from her cooking with a sad smile.

"This is more serious than a broken tooth or a sprained ankle," she said, cracking a few eggs into a pan.

Tios Óscar and Felipe sighed, looking at each other knowingly. "Yes, but the point is…"

"Héctor _won't_ agree to a doctor's examination."

"Not easily, anyway."

"But he'll have to," Coco said, "if he wants to get better."

"He'll be more agreeable after he's eaten, _sí_?" Rosita asked. "Go take that drink up to him, Coco, and I'll bring him breakfast once it's ready."

"And if worse comes to worst…" Óscar added as Coco headed for the stairs.

Felipe continued, " _We'll_ call a doctor for him."

"Whether he likes it or not!" they finished together.

Coco knew her uncles were right, but she still hoped she could breach the topic to him gently, and convince him herself. She wasn't sure how well that would go… but there was only one way to find out.


	9. The Write Thing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Coco finds out a way for Héctor to communicate, and everyone else finds out something significantly less pleasant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *shows up one month late with Folgers* 
> 
> so uh. about that update schedule.
> 
> I am SO SORRY. x__x; I guess a regular update schedule is... not a thing that's going to happen anymore. I really don't know what else I can do about it, with my buffer entirely gone. But I won't give up! Chapters might take a while, now, but I will not give up on this fic!
> 
> In significantly cooler news, though... [FANART!!](https://judgechaos.tumblr.com/post/172336164803/enters-stage-left-humming-a-diddy-doo-da-loot) Judgechaos over on Tumblr drew me fanart!! Look at it!! IT'S COOL! And if anyone else draws me fanart, please do not hesitate to let me know! It makes me super-super-super happy ~~and is a good motivator~~ so if you draw any, please show me! 
> 
> And now, uhh... I hope you guys enjoy the chapter! It's longer than the others, so hopefully that makes up for the lateness a bit...?
> 
> Oh, by the way, uh, another bit of something that's technically canon that I'll have to ignore... Lee Unkrich said that food only appears in the Land of the Dead from offerings. Which, on one hand, makes sense, while on the other hand is very "??????????" to me because oh gosh, even if you're dead and don't need food, how can you go without eating??? So uh... yeah, I'm just gonna ignore that bit. (There's another thing Lee mentioned that I'll have to ignore, but I'll get to that when that part comes up. I swear I usually try to stick to canon as closely as possible but DANG.)

Sometimes, Héctor wished his room wasn't on the third floor. On one hand, it gave him a nice view of the surrounding neighborhood and towers—a significant upgrade from his shack back in Shantytown. But on the other hand… if anything went on downstairs, he couldn't hear it.

That could be a blessing at times—it meant that even during the usual morning commotion, he could sleep in if he wanted to. Other times it was a curse, like when Imelda held a family meeting without him.

Usually because it was _about_ him.

Héctor huddled up on his bed, trying to make himself comfortable, a feat much easier said than done. He didn't feel any better than he had last night, aside from not being _quite_ so exhausted. Even then, he hadn't slept well, and he'd had terrible nightmares about… well.

He rubbed his right arm.

At least Imelda had drawn him out of those nightmares. He would have preferred she not know about them at all, but there wasn't much he could do about that.

Outside, the front door opened. Héctor looked out the window—Pepita was bowing down so Imelda and Julio could board her back. Well, looked like that family meeting was over… So where were _they_ heading?

In a few moments, Pepita sprang into the air and took off. Héctor watched her until she disappeared behind a cluster of towers.

Could they be heading back to where they'd found him? To look for clues, maybe?

 _Good luck with that_ , he thought bitterly. _They cleaned up before they left._

The bitterness quickly drained, leaving him with a sick, _sick_ feeling in his midsection.

 _If you are going to be a part of this family, you_ will not _keep secrets from it._

What was he supposed to tell her? What was he supposed to _do_? If Imelda ever found out who attacked him, nothing would stop her from going after him, and… and Ernesto would…

Héctor shivered.

 _Imelda's strong_ , he told himself, shutting his eyes. She could beat the living daylights out of anyone who was inappropriate with her when she was alive. She chased off every reporter and journalist that came to their house. She'd even gotten away from Ernesto during the Sunrise Spectacular.

But… they'd had the advantage of a surprise attack, then, and of being in the spotlight, where Ernesto couldn't risk doing anything drastic.

Even if they figured out where Ernesto was hiding now, who knew how many people he would have ready to defend him? What lengths he would be willing to go to protect himself?

…What lengths he would be willing to go to hurt Héctor's _family_?

He shook his head, shuddering. It wasn't fair—he'd spent so long, so many decades trying to get back to his family, and now that they were _finally_ together again… he'd put them in danger.

What was he going to do?

_Knock, knock, knock._

Pain lanced through his missing hand, and he drew in a sharp breath that turned into a yelp. He was shaking, and his chest was heaving, his ribs aching with every breath, but he couldn't stop as panic pulsed through his marrow. _No, no no no, not again, not_ again _—!_ He clutched his arm to his chest, curling up on himself, for all the good it would do.

"Papá…?!"

It was a moment before he registered the voice, and he shut his eyes. Idiota _, it's only Coco!_ he thought. _What are you panicking over?_ He tried to breathe more slowly, to uncurl, to at least try to _look_ relaxed, but the fear that had seized him didn't seem to take the hint. He felt like he was in that dark room again, one of Ernesto's goons doing who-knows-what to his hand… except he was in _his own_ room now, and Ernesto was obviously not here.

"Papá, are you okay? Can I come in?"

 _Not like this, not like this,_ Héctor thought, forcing himself to breathe as evenly as he could in spite of his broken ribs. _She can't see me like this. There's nothing here, calm down,_ por favor _, calm down…_

"You can knock on something if it's okay for me to come in."

At least she wouldn't barge in like Imelda probably would. Un momento _, Coco, hang on…_ He kept his eyes shut, focusing on his breathing. _Don't let her see you like this. You've already worried her enough,_ idiota _. Calm down…_

He was still shaking a little, but he couldn't keep her waiting all morning. Finally opening his eyes, Héctor lifted his right foot and kicked it lightly against the wall a couple times. As the door opened he found himself tensing, hoping that he looked _somewhat_ presentable.

And then belatedly realizing that tensing up in the first place was the _opposite_ of that.

Coco was standing in the doorway, carrying a mug of hot coffee. The sight of her might have made him relax, were it not for the worried look on her face. "Papá, are you all right?" she asked cautiously, stepping closer.

 _No, but let's pretend,_ sí _?_ He nodded, giving her the biggest smile he could manage—which was easier than he'd expected, in spite of how bad he felt—and extended his arm to her.

She smiled back, setting the mug on his dresser before leaning in to hug him. She was careful with the way she wrapped her arms around him, wary of his broken ribs, but he hugged her back as tightly as he could bear. After that horrible night, after everything that had happened and that _could_ have happened, he couldn't possibly hug his daughter enough.

 _I'm so glad you're okay,_ mija.

Though he couldn't see her face with the way she was leaning, he could hear the frown in her voice as she said, "Papá, you're shaking."

For the briefest of moments he was glad he couldn't speak, as he let a few curses loose in his mind. But he shrugged, pulling away from her just enough so he could kiss her left cheek, then her right, then her forehead. He heard her laugh, and in spite of her age, he could _still_ hear his little girl in her voice.

It made him smile every time.

But she drew away from him, her smile fading, and his with it. He knew that pose she shifted to—with her head dipped and one hand gripping her arm—and his brow furrowed.

"I'm sorry we took so long to find you last night," she said, voice wavering.

An emotion Héctor couldn't immediately place bolted up his spine. He swung around so he was sitting on the edge of his bed and went to place his hands ( _hand_ , the pain reminded him) on her shoulders. _No,_ he mouthed. _No apologies._

He wanted to speak so badly, his chest hurt. He wanted to explain that this was in no way her fault, that he would never, _ever_ hear her blame herself for what he'd gotten himself into. He wouldn't have cared if she had taken a _month_ to find him—so long as she was okay, it didn't matter.

"But if I hadn't—"

 _NO_. He had to prevent himself from squeezing her shoulder any tighter—he didn't want to hurt her. Instead he shook his head, mouthing again, _no, no._

Heaving a sigh, she glanced off to the side. "Papá—"

Héctor drew her into a hug again, holding her as close as he dared, ignoring how much it hurt his ribs. It didn't matter—hearing his daughter apologize was more painful than any broken bones. She'd tried to do it before, back when she'd arrived here a month ago, but he hadn't let her do it then, and he wouldn't let her do it now.

 _Never blame yourself for this,_ mija _, please…_

" _Papá_ ," she said again, and he almost missed the amused smile in her voice. "I was only going to say that you should drink your coffee before it gets cold."

_Oh._

Grinning sheepishly, Héctor pulled away from his daughter. He could still see some anxiety beyond the amused look she gave him, but it wasn't as bad as before. Well, maybe she would at least stop beating herself up over this, now…

Coco handed him the mug, which he held carefully in his left hand. It wasn't hot anymore, but it was still warm, and he tentatively took a sip.

The coffee disappeared somewhere beyond his jaw, but whether it actually did anything to his bones or whether it was just a placebo effect, he swore he felt it pass his throat. It hurt to swallow—of course it did—but the warmth seemed to soothe some of the soreness. Satisfied with this, he took a swig, wincing briefly at the pain before warmth seeped into his upper vertebrae. Not to mention, the caffeine would probably help him wake up enough to avoid nightmares for the next few hours.

"Does it help?" Coco asked, and he nodded—sincerely, this time. "Good!"

He took another gulp of coffee, watching as Coco stepped back to look around the room. When she spotted his desk in the corner—still covered in papers from his various attempts at fighting writer's block—he winced. It was such a mess, and all of those half-finished songs were atrocious. He almost tried to speak up, to ask her to keep away from there, _por favor_ , but the pain in his throat flared up. Cringing, he swallowed back the pain and protests with a swig of coffee.

_Knock, knock._

Agony flared in his missing hand as he coughed, spitting and splashing coffee on the floor.

" _Papá_!"

Héctor could barely hear her. In the back of his mind he was aware that she was scared, that he shouldn't be panicking around her, but every other part of him was preoccupied with _getting away_ , getting away, stopping the pain, _por favor, stop—_

"Papá Héctor—!" That was a different voice. "What's wrong?!"

"Papá, it's only Rosita…"

" _Tranquilo_ , Héctor!"

It didn't matter that he could hear them, his hand, his _hand_ —! Why couldn't they just stop the man that was hurting his hand—?!

"Papá, please…! You're at home, you're safe, _tranquilo_."

Home…?

" _Sí_! _Por favor_ , I'm sorry I scared you…"

Home… he was…

Héctor blinked, trying to breathe evenly, trying to take in his surroundings. His back was pressed into the wall his bed sat against, and Coco and Rosita were watching him from his bedside. Both of them looked worried, and Coco was close to tears.

…Coco was—?!

Oh no, no no.

 _Lo siento_ , he mouthed, shaking as he uncurled from the ball he'd found himself in. _Lo siento…!_

"Oh, Papá Héctor!" Rosita cried, reaching out to place a hand on his shoulder. "I should be the one apologizing! I didn't mean to startle you."

Maybe so, but she hadn't been the one to make Coco cry. Still trembling, he scooted to the edge of the bed again, offering to pull his daughter into a hug. She accepted, leaning into the embrace and wrapping her arms around him, stroking his back.

 _Lo siento_ , he mouthed again, wishing he could just say it out loud.

"It's okay, Papá," Coco said. "You're safe here."

" _Ay, pobrecito_ …!"

Out of the corner of his eye he could see Rosita stooping next to him and Coco. She was looking at something to his right.

…Oh, right. She hadn't seen that arm yet. Or, specifically, what wasn'tattached to it.

"Don't worry, we'll… figure something out, Héctorcito."

Héctor grimaced. He knew Rosita meant well, but…

"Ay _, your leg! You can't go walking on that,_ pobrecito… _"_

" _Héctorcito, your arm is still hurt! Let me handle that for you."_

" _Are you sure you're all right,_ mijo _? I—_ oh _! Sorry, Papá Héctor, but…"_

Well… at least _she_ fully accepted him as family, even if she got his position mixed up at times. He had no desire (or means) to correct her at the moment— _any_ connection he retained with his family was a blessing.

"Don't worry—I'll take care of this."

For a moment he wondered what she was referring to when he heard the sound of broken stoneware scraping against hardwood. Blinking, he flexed his left hand, realizing he was no longer holding the coffee mug.

Wonderful.

Biting back a sigh, he finally backed away from Coco. She looked up at him warily—as though she were worried he would start panicking again. He did his best to answer her look with what he hoped looked like a charming smile. _Don't worry about it,_ mija. _I'll be all right. Hopefully._

 _Dios_ , he wished he could talk. He wished he could just _tell_ her these things. He wished he could hold her properly—

A tray carrying a plate of food (of _far_ more food than it should have been capable of holding) was held in front of him. He blinked.

"Here! I know this won't fix your… er…" Rosita cleared her throat. "You'll feel a _little_ better after you eat. _¿De acuerdo?_ "

Well, he'd never been one to turn down free food. Shrugging, he accepted the tray and set it on his lap. He caught himself before he attempted to pick up a fork with his absent right hand, and grabbed it with his left instead. It was awkward, but he managed.

Very quickly he realized that while he could swallow liquids with only a bit of difficulty, swallowing solid food was another matter… even when he didn't have an actual throat for the food to go down, and even though the food _disappeared_ in his mouth anyway. He cursed whatever deity had created the rules of this world every time he took a bite, cringing against the stabbing pains in his upper vertebrae when he swallowed.

While he made a valiant effort at eating, Coco and Rosita stepped back to talk quietly between themselves. He strained to listen to their conversation, catching words like _right_ and _hand_.

Héctor glanced down at his right arm, grimaced, and set down his fork. Between the pain from swallowing and how overall bad he felt, he wasn't all that hungry, anyway.

He let them talk for a while, not able to hear much of what they were saying, and not able to contribute to the conversation even if he could.

It struck him how useless he was.

Imelda had created a virtual empire without him. She'd raised their child, founded her own business, and made a name for herself, all without his help. On one hand, it was wonderful—she was more than amazing, and seeing everything she'd done… if it were possible, he loved her even more than he did when they were alive. On the other hand… she'd done it without him.

And now that she was with him again—or, rather, now that he was with this family again, this family he'd had no part in raising…

 _They_ were taking care of _him_.

Some patriarch he'd become.

"Finished?"

Héctor blinked as the question drew him out of his thoughts. Rosita was smiling down at him, though without any sort of condescension, at least. He nodded at her, and she took the tray. For a moment he expected she might chide him about not eating enough, or urge him to try to eat more, as if that would somehow mend his broken bones, but she said nothing.

Setting the broken fragments of the coffee mug onto the tray, she looked toward the other side of the room, and Héctor followed her gaze, wincing to see Coco rifling through his desk. He hoped she wouldn't try reading any of those awful songs on there—for as bad as they looked on paper, they were probably worse sung or played aloud.

…Not that that mattered anymore.

"It must be frustrating not to talk," Rosita said, and he looked back at her. "But don't worry. Coco's figured something else you can do!"

He blinked at her in surprise. _Had she?_ Looking back at his desk, he wondered for a moment what his daughter had come up with, trying to think of what little he'd heard of the conversation moments ago, and then it hit him. _Write_ , not _right._ Coco was looking for something he could write with. He wasn't sure how well he could do it with his non-dominant hand, but… it was better than nothing.

"Let us know if you need anything, _sí_?" Smiling, Rosita carried the tray out of the room and made her way downstairs.

Meanwhile, Coco was opening the drawers in the desk, rifling through the loose papers. Her face brightened, and she gave a short "ah!" of triumph, pulling out a spiral-bound pocket notebook and a pen.

He recognized the notebook—it was the temporary one he'd been using before Rosita got him a nicer one as a gift. It was probably a third of the way filled with scraps of song lyrics and other things, if he remembered right. When Coco brought it over to him, he flipped through it quickly—no, only a fourth filled. Well, at least that would make it more useful now.

"Would this help, Papá?"

Looking up at her, he managed a smile, nodding. Oh, wait…

Flipping the notebook to a blank page and balancing it on his leg, he took the pen in his left hand, writing shakily. It felt like his entire arm was fighting with him as he wrote, unaccustomed to being used in this way. His wrist ached almost immediately, and the words came out wobbly, but he finally managed to write: Sí _, it would._

The shaky writing was a rather pathetic sight, but Coco gave a laugh when she saw it, throwing her arms around him. Héctor couldn't help laughing with her, only to wince at the pain in his ribcage. That was okay though—at least he wasn't completely speechless, now, exactly. ...Well he was, but he could communicate, anyway.

 _Gracias, mija,_ he wrote, and Coco gave him a near-toothless grin.

"I know it's hard to write like that," she said, smile softening, "but maybe you won't have to use it for too long."

And immediately his good mood was gone. That wasn't true. That wasn't true at all—not that she would know. She didn't know what had happened to his hand—and honestly, he didn't either, other than that Ernesto had taken it away at some point. And if it were up to Ernesto, he would probably never give it back.

Nausea and dull horror filled him at the thought.

He would never get his hand back.

 _Stop, stop, don't think about it. There's nothing you can do about it, don't think about it._ Stop _. You're with your family, and Ernesto's not going to hurt your family, and that's all that matters. Stop thinking about it._

"Papá, are you okay?"

Swallowing back the pain and nausea, he nodded. As an afterthought, he wrote on the notepad: _Tired._ It wasn't a total lie, at least.

Coco nodded. "I guess none of us had much time to sleep," she said, giving a weak laugh. "Would you like me to leave, so you can rest?"

Héctor hesitated. He almost wanted to say yes—Coco had been up for most of the night, just like he had, and it wasn't really fair to make her stay here any longer. But at the same time... he wasn't sure he could bear being alone, just yet. Being alone with his thoughts especially sounded horrible.

He shook his head. _We can talk more_ , he wrote, but even as he did so, the pain in his wrist was really starting to get to him. He wished he could massage his hand, but settled for flexing it instead.

Coco didn't immediately respond to that, and he assumed she was giving him a bit of time for his hand to recover before she asked him anything else. But when he looked back at her, he saw her in that pose again, her left hand grasping her right wrist.

"...Papá," she said slowly. "I need to ask you some things."

Héctor tensed. He knew exactly what sort of things she would be asking; Imelda must have put her up to this. Hesitantly he nodded, urging her to go on.

"I know you don't know who... hurt you," she said, and he felt his stomach sink. "But do you remember what they look like?"

Oh, he could remember plenty, from that unreadable look on his face, to the chilling coldness in his eyes, to the stupid, stupid pearly white bones with their perfect markings, to the dark cloak he wore, probably to dramatically blend in with the shadows. He could even point out at least one of those bodyguards in a crowd. Not like it was the first time he'd dealt with them.

And he could tell her exactly none of that.

Well, it wasn't like he was unused to lying, but doing it to his daughter felt all sorts of wrong. But between that, and Ernesto potentially going after his family... Drawing in a short sigh, he shook his head.

Coco frowned. "You can't remember anything at all?"

 _Please,_ mija _, don't push it like this._ Wincing, he picked up his pen again, shakily writing out a single word: _Dark._

When he showed her the notepad, it felt like an eternity passed before she nodded. Had she been thinking over just how much light had been in that alley? Did she suspect him of lying? Or...

"I understand, Papá," she finally said, and Héctor relaxed, only a little. It sounded like she'd bought his lie; he wasn't sure how he felt about that.

"I won't ask you any more after this one…"

Ay _, now what?_

"When... we found you," and she paused, giving him a moment to run over about fifty nine awful things she could potentially ask that he did not want to answer, "why did you... cry over me like that?"

 _Oh_. He shut his eyes; he supposed he couldn't blame her for asking. Imelda had been the one to find him, after all, and he'd kept it together when she finally approached him. But Coco...

Looking up at her again, he could see the concern in her eyes, and he hesitated.

He couldn't tell her. There was no way he could tell her about the danger she'd been in, about how Ernesto had threatened to... no. She couldn't know about that. She _wouldn't_ know about that.

Staring down at the notepad, he picked up his pen again, writing slowly, choosing his words carefully:

_I was afraid I'd never see you again._

At least this one wasn't a lie, but it wasn't the whole truth, either. He turned the notepad toward her, hoping she would stay true to her word, even if he wasn't exactly telling the truth, himself.

Coco read over the note, and drew back, shocked. She looked from the notebook and back to him, her horror shifting into sympathy. "Oh, Papá," she said, pulling her arm around his shoulders. "It's all right now. I'm not going anywhere."

Héctor hoped that would stay true. _It will, though,_ he told himself, _so long as you keep quiet. Ernesto won't touch them… will he?_

He swallowed back his sense of unease—regardless of what Ernesto had said, he wouldn't tell them, anyway. No one was going to go off and get themselves hurt at his expense. He'd be sure of it.

"We'll make sure you stay safe," Coco went on, only to pause for a moment. "And… we'll call in a doctor to fix you up."

... _What?!_

As loathe as he was to do so, Héctor pulled away from his daughter's embrace, holding up his hand in defense and shaking his head. Remembering the notepad, he snatched up his pen and began writing: _No. I'll be OK! Bones will heal on their own!_

Reading over the writing, Coco's brow furrowed. "Papá, are you afraid of the doctor?"

Héctor waved his hand with a dismissive _huff_. Scared? _Him_? Of course not! He just… didn't trust shady people who charge you an arm and a leg to fix up something you were very much capable of handling on your own. But that was a bit much to write, and he wasn't sure how much longer his hand would hold out before it started cramping, so he quickly wrote: _I'll be fine._

Coco stared at him, deadpan. "Papá, you're missing a hand, and you can't talk."

Part of him was taken aback by his daughter's sarcastic demeanor—where had she gotten _that_ from?—while the other part of him mentally flailed at the fact that she… had a point. Even so, he scribbled: _I'll manage_.

It wasn't like a doctor could give him his hand back, anyway.

Heaving a sigh, Coco shook her head. "You'll need to see a doctor sooner or later."

As Héctor flexed his hand to prepare to write a reply to that, two voices spoke up from behind the door.

"Oh, I think it'll be sooner—"

"—rather than later."

Both of them gave a start. Coco walked up to the door and opened it, revealing Óscar and Felipe leaning against opposite sides of the doorframe, each of them with an equally smug expression on their face. Héctor looked on, not sure whether to be angry that they'd been eavesdropping, confused as to how long they'd been there, or alarmed at what they were implying.

"Ah, _lo siento_ , Héctor…" Felipe's smug grin shifted to an apologetic smile.

"But since we knew you weren't going to agree to this…" Óscar began.

And they both finished: "We called a doctor in for you!"

Héctor blanched.

_Qué._

"He should be here in about…" Óscar glanced back at the clock that hung in the hallway.

"Fifteen minutes," Felipe said, waving his hand. "Give or take—"

"—depending on the traffic."

Looking from one twin to the other, Héctor tried to determine whether or not this was just another joke of theirs. But between Óscar's look that just radiated "got ya!" and Felipe's slightly-apologetic-but-still-smug expression, it seemed that yes, they were serious. When he turned to Coco, she only shrugged, smiling.

Mija _! You planned this—?!_ he wanted to sputter, but he couldn't say anything. He could write it, but he knew his hand wasn't going to be able to take much more at this point.

Now he was going to have to deal with a doctor prodding at all his broken bones, and that… was not something he wanted to go through. On top of that, the doctor was doubtlessly going to ask a lot of questions about where he'd gotten those broken bones from, and that was not something he wanted to answer. Not something he _could_ answer.

An idea struck him, and he gave a short sigh, leaning back against the pillows on his bed. He wrote on the pad, forcing himself through the pain it brought to his wrist, and finally held out the paper. Coco retrieved it to look it over:

_Tired. Going to nap before he gets here._

"Of course, Papá," Coco said, setting the notepad beside him. "We'll let you know when he's here." She leaned in to give him one last hug, and he gave her face a few more kisses for good measure. With that, she stepped out of the room, and his brother-in-laws eyed him for a moment.

"Don't try to sneak out, Héctor."

"We'll know if you do."

Héctor waved them off, turning his head toward the wall and shutting his eyes. After a moment, he heard the door creak shut.

And immediately he sat up, looking at the window and trying to determine just how easy it would be to open it one-handed.

 

* * *

 

Once the door was shut behind them and Coco was heading down the stairs, Óscar and Felipe exchanged glances. Their smug grins quickly shifted into worried frowns as they let the memory of their brother-in-law's appearance sink in. Yes, Imelda had told them what had happened, but _seeing_ it was a different matter.

"Haven't seen him that bad since—"

"—we had to carry him home after the Sunrise Spectacular?" Felipe shook his head. "This is worse."

"You think so?" Óscar took another glance back at the door before heading for the stairs. "At least he's conscious this time."

"His bones weren't _that_ broken last time," Felipe said, following his brother. "And he could talk, when he woke up."

Óscar nodded; seeing his normally-talkative brother-in-law rendered mute was disturbing. "Not to mention he still had all of his bones—"

"—minus a rib."

"Forgot about that," Óscar muttered; Felipe was always better at noticing the smaller details. As they got closer to the bottom of the stairs, however, he caught Coco's worried look, and shrugged. "But that's why we called the doctor."

"He'll patch Héctor up," Felipe said, immediately catching on. "Even if Héctor doesn't _want_ to be patched up."

"He'll smooth out the scratches."

"Mend the breaks."

"Plaster the gouges."

"Repair the fractures."

"Heal the—"

"Okay, I get it," Coco said with a short laugh, holding up a hand to make them stop.

Óscar beamed; he was never really sure if their banter amused or confused his niece, but it helped keep her mind off her worries either way. It was the same trick they'd done when she was little, whenever she felt sad about her missing papá.

Before reaching the bottom of the stairs, Óscar stopped and took a seat, Felipe following suit. As expected, Coco looked up at them in confusion. Before she could speak up, Óscar held a finger to his mouth.

"We'll stay here for now," Felipe whispered. "If Héctor tries to leave—"

"—we'll hear it." Óscar leaned back, resting his elbows on the stair behind him. "On top of that—"

"—he can't get past us." Felipe glanced over his shoulder, though they both knew Héctor wouldn't try leaving _that_ quickly.

" _Gracias_." Coco beamed up at them before starting down the second flight of stairs. "Rosita and I will greet the doctor when he comes in."

As Coco descended, the two glanced at each other, and Felipe was the first to sigh, drooping where he sat. "This doesn't look good," he murmured, and Óscar drew his arm around his brother's shoulders.

"It doesn't," Óscar admitted. He thought for a moment, then gave a quiet laugh. "So much for our guitar attachment prototype, huh?"

Ever since they'd gotten Héctor that new guitar, they'd been eager to try making different inventions for their brother-in-law to use. Since Imelda tended to limit their shoe experiments whenever she could, this seemed like an acceptable workaround—not quite the same as breaking ground with new footwear, but still enjoyable enough. And Héctor was always happy to be their guinea pig.

Their latest prototype was an attachment that was to hold sheet music in front of the guitar while it was being played. It still had some kinks that needed to be worked out—namely, how the musician was supposed to swap pages without dropping all of them on the ground—but Óscar had been confident that it would be one of their best inventions yet, after they had it thoroughly tested.

Which, given the circumstances, wasn't something that was going to happen anytime soon.

"A bit more unfortunate for him, I think." There was no humor in Felipe's words.

"Hm, true." Óscar looked away, thinking back to just the other day when Héctor had been playing guitar for the family. He was still a bit rusty, but the sheer joy on his face was plain to see.

It certainly wasn't there now.

The two sat in silence for a while, still waiting for the eventual knock on the door, or else for the sound of a certain someone sneaking around upstairs. But as they sat, the gears began to turn in Óscar's mind. "Did you get a good look at his hand?"

"No, _hermano_. It wasn't there." Felipe cast him a sidelong glance, and Óscar cracked a grin.

"You know what I meant."

" _Sí_." Felipe glanced down at his own hands, firmly grasped his right hand with his left, and yanked it off. "It's entirely gone, from the carpals onward. Just the arm is there." He waved his own arm in demonstration before swiftly re-attaching his hand.

Frowning in concentration, Óscar stared at his own hands. "Do you think—"

_Knock, knock._

"Oh! There he is!" came Rosita's voice from the first floor.

Both twins stood immediately. Though Óscar was the first to start to move forward, he quickly stopped. After casting another glance up the stairs, he met his brother's gaze, and they nodded, staying put for now.

" _Hola_ , Doctor Mendoza," Coco said, followed by the sound of footsteps and the door shutting.

" _Hola_ , _Señora_. I came as fast as I could; the gondola got held up for a minute by a flying _alebrije_."

" _Gracias_ for coming, Doctor!" Rosita's voice was closer to the stairway. " _Pobre_ Héctor is in bad shape… He's in his room upstairs."

Óscar and Felipe both nodded to the doctor as he reached the second floor, Coco and Rosita following. " _Hola_!" they both said, and the doctor nodded to them. He was a short man and did not wear a wig, but he did wear a large dark coat.

"Is he up there?" Dr. Mendoza asked, looking past the twins and up the stairs.

" _Sí_." Óscar stepped off to one side while Felipe stepped down off the stairs to let the doctor through. "To your left, at the end of the hall."

"You were telling me he's suffering through some broken bones?" The doctor glanced over his shoulder as he spoke without really looking back at them.

Which was good, because it meant he missed the worried glances everyone cast at each other. "S… something like that," Felipe said, finally. "We… may have left out a few details."

"A few."

"A bit."

"Maybe a little more."

"A lot."

"A— _hey_!" Óscar cried out when Coco suddenly shoved him aside, rushing past him up the stairs and running after the doctor. It still felt a bit strange to see his niece moving like that with as old as she was, but old bones don't really hold back the dead.

"Coco?" Felipe called after her, rushing up the stairs. "What's the—"

"Don't knock!" Coco cried, and Óscar reached the top of the stairs to see her grabbing the doctor's sleeve. When the doctor turned to give her a baffled look, she let go, lowering her voice. "Don't knock. It… the sound startles him."

"Er… I see." Turning back to face the door, Dr. Mendoza stared at it for a moment, brow furrowed in thought, before speaking up. " _Señor_ Rivera?" he called. "My name is Dr. Mendoza. I was called in to treat you."

"Papá?" Coco stood next to the doctor. "Could you knock on something if it's okay to come in?"

Óscar approached the two, Felipe and Rosita close behind. Honestly, they should be giving him space—and they would, once the doctor was in the room with him—but something didn't feel right. Glancing back at his brother, Óscar gave him a concerned look, and Felipe returned it.

"He never passed us," Felipe whispered.

"And I never heard him move upstairs."

"So he couldn't have left his room." Felipe stared down at the floor for a moment, only to give a start. "Unless—!"

"Unless—?"

The door creaked open, and the doctor blinked. "Are you… _sure_ this is the right room?"

" _Papá_?!"

"Oh dear, what happened?" Rosita tried to see past the twins, who were very quickly realizing the miscalculation they'd made.

Felipe was the first to bolt into the room, Óscar following, and they both screeched to a halt at the sight of an empty bed and an open window. On the bed was a scrap of paper, with shaky, bad handwriting reading simply, " _no gracias_."

" _Héctor_!" they cried, Felipe in horror and Óscar in frustration.

Coco pushed past them, looking down at the note and heaving a sigh. "I'll go look for him," she said, shuffling past them again and down the stairs.

"This is… interesting, to say the least," Dr. Mendoza muttered as he glanced around the room. "When did you last see him?"

"Just before you got here." Óscar crossed his arms. "We made the mistake of letting him know you'd be coming."

"Héctor has… a _history_ of avoiding doctors." Felipe held his hands behind his back. "This isn't the first time he's tried to get away with getting away."

The other times had been amusing, if not hilarious, looking back on them, but now Óscar was beginning to remember just how _annoying_ his brother-in-law's avoidance of doctors was. They'd probably look back on this and laugh, at least… provided everything went well later.

"Coco will get him back, though," Rosita said carefully, stepping into the room. "Papá Héctor will listen to her. You can sit down for now if you like."

Scratching the back of his skull, the doctor took a seat on the edge of the bed. "Could you give me a bit more information, then, while we wait?" he asked. "Since apparently you were scant on the details."

Óscar's initial thought was to launch into an explanation of what they'd found out about last night, but caught a subtle head-shake from his twin. Shrugging, he said instead, "Héctor has a few old injuries that never got treated. A broken leg—"

"—a broken arm—"

"—and some broken ribs. They _were_ starting to heal, but…" Óscar turned to Felipe, not sure how to approach the next part. How much could they actually say? Héctor probably didn't want them to say anything, but then, he didn't want a visit from the doctor at _all_ , so that threw his opinion out. Did Imelda want them saying anything until she had word back from the police?

"Héctor can… get into situations a bit over his head," Felipe explained with a wince. "Yesterday he broke a few more ribs, and scratched up his throat, and…"

"Uh… he… may not have…"

"...come back in one piece."

There was an air of professional calmness around the doctor, who took in the description unflinchingly. "I see. What was he missing, then?"

" _Pobre_ Héctor…"

The twins turned to Rosita, who was wringing her hands.

"He lost his hand," she said, rubbing her right hand with her left as though to demonstrate.

The doctor stared at her for a long moment, then looked to the twins, who both nodded. "How… did that happen?" he asked carefully.

At least they could answer that one honestly. Óscar shrugged helplessly. "We don't know."

"None of us do," Felipe confirmed. "But—"

"Has he tried calling it back?"

Óscar had to think about that for a moment—he hadn't seen Héctor try to call his missing limb back, no. But at the same time, Héctor as an expert at taking himself apart and pulling himself back together, sometimes in very creative ways. He and Felipe had talked with their brother-in-law about it on multiple occasions, and found his demonstrations to be fascinating (if alarming at times). For someone as skilled in that way as Héctor was, it should have been an easy feat, and yet, he'd come home sans his right hand.

"He's tried," he said finally, and Felipe nodded. "But his hand is still missing."

Now Dr. Mendoza leaned forward, eying them seriously. "You are _absolutely certain_."

"Well… _sí_." Rosita held her hands close to her face. "If he hasn't called his hand back yet, I don't think he _can_."

"Can he still feel it?"

That was something only Héctor could answer. Óscar shrugged, finding himself stepping closer to his twin, who mirrored his action so they were shoulder-to-shoulder. They caught each others' worried glances before turning back to the doctor.

"And you said this happened when?"

"Last night," Felipe said. "But—"

"Why does that matter?" Óscar finally blurted. "He can call it back when he finds it."

"...Can't he?"

The doctor fixed him with a look that nearly made him flinch. "Do you not know what happens if a bone remains unattached for too long?"

None of them answered. A chill that had nothing to do with the open window had settled in the room.

"If a bone, or set of bones, is separated from the body for a week or more, the detached bone grows numb, and the connection weakens."

Rosita covered her mouth, and Óscar and Felipe found themselves huddled against each other as the realization hit them, even before the doctor confirmed it.

"It _cannot_ be reattached."


	10. Dust, Dogs, and Deserters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Julio prevents his mother-in-law from attacking the local law enforcement, Héctor decides to go for a limp around the neighborhood, and Victoria is Done with everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HELLO I AM NOT DEAD. ... I mean I am I'm a skeleton but thAT'S BESIDES THE POINT. 
> 
> I am making it a habit now to work on my writing REGULARLY, so here's hoping that regular updates will become more of a thing. Probably not weekly updates though--as some of you have seen, I'm currently working on a oneshot collection alongside this, so what I've been doing as of late is working on a oneshot, then working on a scene from this fic, then working on another oneshot, and so on. I thiiiink I can keep this up. I think. We'll see.
> 
> Also did you know I got more giftart? Because [I GOT MORE GIFTART!](http://babycharmander.tumblr.com/post/173037355910/) Please check it out it's SO COOL. Empro-8 on Tumblr drew a scene from chapter 5 that I'm sure you should recognize!
> 
> Also also, thanks to Jaywings and PaperGardener for beta-reading this chapter for me. You guys are awesome!
> 
> OKAY I won't mess around any longer--let's get going!!

Julio liked to think he was a brave man when he needed to be.

Yes, there were a great many things that scared him. The enormous beast he sat upon was one of them; even back when Pepita had been an ordinary house cat, there had always been something unsettling about her yellow gaze. The woman sitting in front of him was another—Mamá Imelda was a force to be reckoned with, and it didn’t help that she was his mother-in-law. Even Héctor made his non-existent gut twist in worry—mild-mannered as the man could be, Héctor had gone to extreme measures just to see Coco again. Julio shuddered to think what might happen if his father-in-law thought _he_ was mistreating her.

And yet the second they realized Héctor may be in trouble, Julio had followed his wife immediately. It didn’t matter that he would have to fly on Pepita, travel with Mamá Imelda, or face Héctor—if his _familia_ was in danger, he would step in to help. There was no question about it. That was just what you _did_.

Still, it wasn’t making this little excursion any easier.

Julio had to continuously switch between tugging his hat down back over his skull, and gripping Pepita’s fur. He wished he had something sturdier to grab hold of, but there was no way he was going to grab his mother-in-law—with as focused as she was, she might be startled badly enough to turn her shoe on him. It wouldn’t surprise him, anyway.

She’d been tense ever since they’d left the police station. Both of them had given their statements—Julio had recounted everything from the moment they first discovered that Héctor was missing up until they brought him home. While he supposed Imelda must have given a similar account, he couldn’t help but notice that she was gone for a bit longer than he had been. She hadn’t spoken much when she’d met up with him again; she’d only told the police that Pepita could lead them to where they’d found Héctor.

And that was where they were going now, as Pepita scanned the streets below them to find the alley that they’d been in not six hours ago. The police were somewhere beneath them on horseback, Pepita flying slow enough for the skeletal equine to keep up. They’d been flying for some time now, and the silence was starting to get to Julio.

 _Ay_ , he wished Coco was here.

“M-Mamá Imelda,” he stammered, straining to keep his voice above the wind, “are they still following us?”

Imelda twisted herself around where she sat—not to face Julio, but to look at the ground beneath them. “It seems so,” she replied, and turned to face forward again.

Julio watched his mother-in-law anxiously as he reached up to tug his hat down again. It wasn’t unusual for her to be so focused like this, but her shoulders were tense, and her quietness was unnerving. Something was clearly bothering her, but then… they _were_ running on too-few hours of sleep, and in the middle of a stressful situation.

Swallowing, Julio tried to look past Imelda and at Pepita, only to quickly turn away, feeling like his stomach would be doing somersaults if he still had one. The _alebrije_ still hadn’t begun her descent, and he had no idea how much longer this would take.

Once again he wished Coco could be here. She would know what to do in this situation, but she wasn’t here, so… maybe he should do something? It was usually best to avoid Imelda when she was in a bad mood, but she looked like she was about to snap, and the idea of her snapping on the police sounded like a disaster waiting to happen.

Which would mean _he_ would have to take the brunt of it.

Well… might as well get this over with. “What—” he cleared his throat. “What did you talk to them about?”

There was a rumble beneath them as Pepita growled. _Ay_ , this was a mistake, this was bad, this was a horrible mistake!

“I _told_ them,” Imelda began, her words clipped, “what _happened._ ”

“ _S-sí_ , I guessed that,” Julio replied, tugging his had down further over his head and fighting the temptation to duck into his ribcage. “But you—”

“I told them everything I saw, everything I know—” She drew in a hissing breath through her teeth. “But _they_ seemed more interested in sticking their nasal bones where they don’t _belong_!”

Her voice was rising—in anger, clearly, but Julio had known his mother-in-law long enough to recognize when she was using her fire to cover for something else. But more than that, he knew that once she started like this, it was best to let her burn out on her own.

“What sort of _idiota_ do they take me for? I come to them when I find my husband broken and shivering in a dark alley, attacked by some criminal, and they decide to bring up things that have _nothing_ to do with this—from years, _ages_ ago, that don’t matter, that have no bearing on this—”

_Oh._

As Imelda’s speech degenerated into curses against the entire police department, Julio shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

When you were a Rivera, and you died and joined the rest of the family, there were (or, used to be) a few things you learned very quickly—usually within your first year or so. One was that the no-good _músico_ that had abandoned your family did _not_ stop by—not on any sort of anniversary, not on anyone’s birthday, not on any holiday. Another was that the second you caught a glimpse of a ragged skeleton approaching the _hacienda_ , you suddenly had something very important to do on the far side of the house or workshop. Finally, you did _not_ hear Mamá Imelda raising her voice over the pleas (and sometimes shouts, and often _yelps_ ) of said ragged skeleton, and you did not discuss what you did not hear with anyone else.

Not that Imelda ever threatened anyone over it, of course. Rather, she always came out of the situations looking so hurt and _exhausted_ that no one had the heart to ask her to elaborate on anything. Imelda never liked being vulnerable, so they would turn a blind eye to it.

But that didn’t mean their neighbors would.

People couldn’t exactly ignore the spectacle that occurred at the Rivera _hacienda_ every year or so, and on a few occasions concerned neighbors called the police after hearing a few too many screams and shouts.

Imelda had never gotten into real trouble; the first time the police had paid their house a visit (before Julio had died—the twins had explained it to him briefly later on), she laid out the situation for them calmly. A man she was no longer associated with had tried to force himself onto her property uninvited, and she had simply been protecting her _familia_. To her, the matter was already settled. Evidently they’d looked into the matter further, found that the man in question possessed yellow-tinted bones, a dilapidated house in Shantytown, and a lengthy criminal record, and dropped the matter.

The next few times they were called, they offered to put a restraining order on the man, but Imelda had insisted that she could take care of the situation herself. After that, they simply let things be.

But it never occurred to any of the family until now that those incidents would still probably go on record… which might explain why the police had a bit more to question Imelda about than they did Julio.

Mamá Imelda had gone silent, her shoulders tense.

Tugging on his hat, Julio mulled over how to approach this. “...We know you had nothing to do with what happened to him, Mamá,” he said slowly. “The police are… just being thorough. They need to be, s-so they can find whoever hurt Héctor.”

“...You’re right, Julio.” Some of the tension left Imelda’s shoulders, and, subsequently, it left Julio’s as well. Then the ire returned to her voice, if only briefly: “But to even think for a moment that I would do such a thing—!”

Julio wasn’t sure what to say to that, but it wouldn’t matter if he did anyway—the world suddenly tipped downward, and his stomach dropped as Pepita prepared for a landing. One hand went to his hat, and the other cling to Pepita as the _alebrije_ carefully swooped into a street, this time needing to dodge the sparse traffic that populated it. Once she touched down, Julio removed his hat to rub his skull in relief. _Ay_ , he would never be used to flying, _ever_.

Imelda was first to dismount, Julio hesitantly sliding down Pepita’s wing afterward. The few passersby paused to look at the giant _alebrije_ before moving along, and the three of them watched, as though expecting one of them to reveal themselves as Héctor’s assailant. Julio wondered, briefly, if these were people Héctor knew, but it was hard to say, when he knew so little about Héctor himself. But…

They heard the _clip-clop_ of hooves on pavement, and around the corner trotted a skeletal horse bearing fake ears, glass eyes, and a frankly silly-looking police cap. The animal did not flinch at the sight of Pepita, and its two riders urged it forward.

“ _Señora_ Rivera,” one of them said, remaining mounted as they approached Imelda, looking around at the wide-open street. “Is this the place your… husband was attacked?”

Imelda tensed, and even Julio had to furrow his brow at the officer’s tone.

“No, Officer Heraldez,” she said, looking to Pepita. The _alebrije_ dipped her head before striding toward a narrower street. “My spirit guide found him close by here, in a space too narrow for her to fit through.”

Certainly she wasn’t happy with the officer, but at least she wasn’t shouting at him. Maybe getting her to talk on the way here _had_ worked out all right. At least… Julio hoped so.

He, Imelda, and the two mounted officers mounted followed Pepita as she led them to the narrow alleyway they’d found Héctor in. It didn’t look nearly as foreboding in the daytime, though it was still dimly-lit. But from the entrance, they could see the garbage piled up and scattered around the middle of the alley.

“Well, looks like _something_ happened here, all right,” the other police officer said, grabbing her flashlight and shining it around the alley. “Hasn’t this complex been abandoned for a while?”

Heraldez nodded. “ _Sí_ , no one’s claimed this place in some time.” He turned to face Imelda, who was following him alongside Julio, while Pepita stayed behind. “And what was your husband doing here?”

Sensing Imelda’s anger rising again, Julio spoke up in her stead. “H-he was visiting Shantytown. He’s been doing that every week. He must have tried to cut through here?”

“Hm, then this would be an ideal place for someone to jump him.” Heraldez dismounted from his horse, handing the reins to his partner. “Assuming that’s what happened, anyway.”

“Why would you assume otherwise?” Imelda growled, hands curling into fists.

“ _Mamá_ ,” Julio whispered. She met his gaze, and forced herself to calm.

“He may have been attacked elsewhere and then dropped off here,” the officer said, sweeping his flashlight along the side of one of the buildings while the other searched around the piles of garbage. “Where did you find him?”

Both Julio and Imelda had to look around for a moment before their eyes fell on the door Héctor had been huddled against. “Here,” she said, placing her hand against the doorway. She hesitated, a faraway look clouding her expression.

It wasn’t hard to guess what she was _really_ seeing.

“ _Sí_ , and I found his guitar here as well,” Julio added, more to pull Imelda out of her thoughts than anything else.

“His guitar?”

“ _Sí_ , officer. It hadn’t been touched.”

“That’s… unusual,” Heraldez admitted, rubbing his chin. “It doesn’t rule out an attempted robbery, though. It could have been overlooked in the dark?”

“Doubtful,” the other officer said, turning around in her saddle. “Even in the dark, it’d be hard to miss someone carrying something of that size.”

“Or else they didn’t think they could get away with carrying it off.”

“And you think a robber would take the time to break his ribs? To—!” Imelda cut herself off, and Julio placed a hand on her shoulder.

“That _is_ the question, _Señora_ Rivera.”

Julio’s reassuring touch quickly became a grip on Imelda’s shoulder when she shot a glare at the officer. Forget wishing Coco were here—he was suddenly very, very glad she was not, because there was no way he could have held _her_ back at this point. She didn’t get as angry as quickly as Imelda did, but when she _was_ angry… well, she’d even scared Julio once or twice.

“We can search the building, though it may be better if we knew where _Señor_ Rivera was when he was attacked.” Approaching the door, Heraldez tried the knob and found it locked.

“He could barely walk when we found him,” Imelda said, and Julio could tell she was struggling to keep her voice even. “I don’t think he walked very far, if at all.”

“Well…” The female officer eyed the doorway. “If you’re sure that’s where you found him, and since this building is abandoned…” She looked to her partner for confirmation.

Nodding, Heraldez faced the door. “We can conduct a brief search right now, though without more details from your husband, we can’t know exactly what to look for.”

“So do what you _can_ , then, _por favor_.” Imelda’s voice had taken on a tired edge to it—whether from being tired of dealing with these police or from actual physical exhaustion, Julio wasn’t sure.

He tugged at his hat, backing away with Imelda as Officer Heraldez got to work on ramming the door open. _More details from Héctor_ , the officer had said. Héctor couldn’t even speak right now, so he wasn’t entirely sure how that would work. But more than that—

 _BANG_.

Yelping, Julio jumped back—the officer had succeeded in kicking the door open. The interior of the building was dim, but not impossibly dark, thanks to a bit of light from the doorway and a window somewhere else inside.

“See what you can find out here,” Heraldez said with a nod to his partner. “I’ll take a look inside.”

Julio watched as the female officer urged her horse down the alley. When he turned back to the doorway, he gave a start; Imelda was already stepping in ahead of the officer. “W-wait, Mamá Imelda!” he called, allowing the officer to enter ahead of him before rushing after Imelda. “We should let the police handle this—he knows what he’s doing.”

Even in the dark, he didn’t miss the look she gave him—one that clearly stated just what she thought of the police right now. But it was brief, and she turned to where the officer was shining his flashlight around the room.

It was full of old storage crates and boxes, and little else otherwise. There was a window at the end of a nearby hallway (through which one of Pepita’s eyes peered through—she must have walked around the side of the building) and a few doors to other rooms, but otherwise, nothing that helped them. The hardwood floor was old, but clear of any scratch marks or signs of a struggle, like any of them had expected.

“Looks like someone was using this place as storage,” Heraldez said, looking over the containers that littered the room. He opened up one box and shone a light into it, and Imelda and Julio looked with him only to find a collection of mildewed books. “And whoever it was, they’re probably not coming back for it anytime soon.”

“What about the other rooms?” Imelda said, already moving on to open a door. When Julio peered through the doorway, he could barely make out a countertop—a kitchen, probably.

While Imelda and the officer began searching the other rooms, Julio stayed behind in the main room, taking a closer look around. It was entirely possible Héctor had never been in here at all—that he’d just been jumped in the alley, and had chosen this particular doorway to hide in. But something about the room felt… off, though he couldn’t place exactly what.

He listened to what he could hear of Imelda and Heraldez’s conversation—they had found a bedroom with a collapsed bed frame, a bathroom with a broken mirror, and another room full of boxes, but otherwise, nothing of note. The officer seemed to be growing increasingly convinced that nothing had happened in here, and Imelda was growing increasingly frustrated.

Still, Julio knelt to the floor, trying to take a closer look and wishing he had a flashlight of his own. If there had been a struggle—and there would _have_ to be, given he couldn’t imagine Héctor going through what he’d gone through willingly—there was one thing he knew he would find.

Scuff marks.

Héctor had been wearing his new shoes, and while Rivera shoes were incredibly sturdy, the soles could still leave marks on the floor if they were hit hard enough. And given the state Héctor had been in, Julio wouldn’t be surprised at all if his father-in-law had kicked and struggled with all his might through whatever he’d gone through.

If only he could see the floor better. Maybe…

Julio reached out his hand to feel around the floor as Imelda and the officer stepped out of the spare room.

“We can search the crates and boxes, but I’m starting to think there isn’t—”

“ _¡Hijole!_ ” Julio cried, hopping upright. “There’s no dust on the floor!”

“ _¿Qué?_ ” Both Imelda and the officer rushed up to him.

Immediately Julio felt uneasy under their scrutiny, but his excitement over his discovery won over his nervousness. “Y-you said no one’s come here for a while, now, so there should be a buildup of dust. But the floors are clean!”

Imelda stooped down, running her hand over the floor and then rubbing her phalanges. “He’s right. The floor is clear.” A smile came to her lips— _finally_. “It seems someone was trying to clean up in order to hide something.”

The officer knelt down to see for himself, and nodded, seeming impressed. “Well! Looks like you’re right. Good work, _Señor_.”

Julio smiled, relieved that this hadn’t been a total waste of time. Even the smallest clue was better than nothing. Briefly he wondered if Pepita had noticed their discovery as well, but the yellow gleam of her eyes was no longer shining through the window.

“So something could have indeed happened here, but we’re still scant on details—particularly anything that tells us _who_ did this.” Straightening, Heraldez looked around the room. “But it’s a start. Again, a statement from your husband will be invaluable here, _Señora_.”

“It’ll have to be a written statement,” she said, “but he _will_ give you one.”

Hearing that, Julio’s smile faded, and he began to fidget with his hat.

Yes, Héctor would need to give a statement; there was no getting around that. But there was one problem—something that Julio had been suspecting last night when they’d found him. Something that he’d been mulling over, that he’d been growing more and more certain of the more he thought about it.

Héctor had been scant on some of the details, understandably, but some—like the identity of his attacker—he had given specific answers on.

Julio had not known Héctor for most of his life—no one in their family had. But he had known _Coco_ for most of his life, and she bore a resemblance to her father in more ways than just their markings.

There was a look he’d seen in Coco a few times in the past—usually when she was hiding something from her mother. He suspected Imelda and Coco had been too upset to notice it, but even in the dark alley, Julio had noticed _something_ about the expression his father-in-law bore—something beyond just pain and exhaustion.

When they’d asked about the identity of his attacker…

Héctor had been lying.

 

* * *

 

_“You’re an idiot, Héctor, but you’re even more of an idiot when you haven’t slept in three days.”_

Chicharrón had told him that once, after the aftermath of one of his many failed attempts at crossing the bridge. Héctor couldn’t quite remember which one that was—it was either the one with the chicken-llama _alebrije_ , or the one with the boat. Or was it the one with the fireworks?

Either way, he’d been absolutely right. None of his bridge-crossing plans had worked, but the ones that had been the most disastrous tended to be the ones he made when he was very desperate, very sleep-deprived, or both.

And apparently that extended to things other than bridge-crossing plans… like jumping out a third-story window to avoid being seen by a doctor.

Héctor’s foot caught on an uneven cobblestone, and he gave a choked yelp. Even though he’d split himself apart before impact, it hadn’t exactly done wonders for his still-healing leg, which he’d partially re-broken last night. Once again he was limping as bad as he had been months ago, which was quite the literal pain. As were his newly-broken ribs, and his re-broken arm, and…

 _Why_ had he thought this was a good idea, again?

…Oh, right, because he’d needed to avoid being questioned by the doctor. Which he was successfully doing, but it wasn’t like he could stay away from home forever… could he?

Tiredly he looked around the street he’d found himself on. He still hadn’t left the residential areas—he was absolutely _not_ going to the commercial ones, unless he wanted to be hounded by the media, and there was no way he could avoid them in his current state. Not to mention, said current state would certainly draw even more attention to himself, and he really did not need more rumors flying around about him, and Ernesto, and Imelda…

Ay _, how would they spin_ this _?_ He looked down at the missing end of his right arm accusingly, and quickly decided he didn’t want to know. He could barely stand to reflect on what had _actually_ happened last night, let alone what wild yarn the tabloids would spin if they found out. Frowning, he tucked his arm back into his vest.

A few voices caught his attention, and he ducked behind an artificial tree, peering around the corner. But it was only a family—two parents and a teenager—walking down the road and talking. They seemed to be talking about something seriously, but there was no fighting or arguing. Both adults were listening to their son, nodding along and offering input as he spoke.

Feeling a pang in his chest, Héctor looked away.

What kind of questions was the doctor going to ask him? Héctor could probably make up some lie or other about the broken bones, but what would he say about his hand? If he said he’d lost it somewhere, the doctor might send someone to search for it, and then his family would immediately know he was lying, and then they’d wonder what else he was lying about, and…

What a mess.

He leaned against the wall, lifting his injured leg to keep the weight off of it, and let out a short sigh. Part of him wanted to turn back so he could go home and just lay in bed for a while, but the rest of him wasn’t ready. Not yet. Not until he came up with a good excuse for why he’d run off, at least.

Or, ideally, until he figured out what he was inevitably going to have to tell that doctor.

And, well… the doctor didn’t have the right to tell anyone else about it, right? Ernesto couldn’t get him for that, could he? Or maybe he could admit that he’d been attacked, but then the doctor might tell the police, and then they’d get involved, and goodness knew how he was supposed to handle _that._ Could he just… keep his mouth shut? He had a right to do that, didn’t he?

…Actually, he _had_ to keep his mouth shut, didn’t he? Literally—he couldn’t talk. They couldn’t fault him for not answering any questions then!

The thought made him give a laugh, which he quickly choked down, rubbing at his throat.

Well, in any case, he still wasn’t ready to turn back and head home, as bad as he felt both mentally and physically. Maybe he’d keep wandering around this residential area for a while to clear his head.

As he began limping back down the street again, however, another sound caught his ear—the faint plucking of strings, coming from one of the nearby houses. It took him only moments to recognize the tune—one of the more common ones he’d heard during the Revolution—and for a moment it made him smile. Limping farther along, he listened to the song for a while. Even though the memories it brought back weren’t the happiest, Héctor had never been one to turn down good music (unless it came from Ernesto, but, then, he could hardly consider _that_ good music). He should really go back and play some of those older songs again, when—

…Oh.

Cringing, he gripped his right wrist before yanking his hand away—it still felt so wrong to hold his wrist, and not feel the hand at the end of it.

This was stupid, stupid, stupid, _idiota, what did you think coming out here was going to accomplish?!_

Héctor stumbled away in the direction opposite of the music, fighting to ignore the phantom pains in his missing hand and his chest, alongside all the other very, very real pains in his bones.

He could head back over to Shantytown, maybe? People there didn’t ask invasive questions, usually. Even so, he didn’t want to worry his other _familia_ over his current condition, especially when everything had been perfectly fine and happy the night prior. Even if they didn’t ask questions, that didn’t mean one or two of them wouldn’t worry and try looking into things.

By this point he’d turned down another street, finding himself closer to the edge of the tower that the Riveras’ home was built on. Here, the buildings were more clustered together and the streets sloped more. Moving upward would be harder on his leg, so he turned to move downward. He still had to be careful about being seen by other people, but so long as he didn’t act suspicious, perhaps no one would look his way. _Ay_ , though he wished he’d put on his shoes before jumping out that window. A barefooted skeleton in these nicer residential areas would be an odd sight to any person.

A distant roar echoed through the air, and he grimaced. _Alebrijes_ might notice, too, but at least none of those could rat him out.

The roar sounded again, this time closer, and for a moment Héctor wondered who around here owned a giant, flying, feline… spirit… guide…

Stomach dropping, Héctor slowly turned around to see an enormous green-and-yellow shape tearing through the sky and rapidly approaching. Terror quickly took precedence over whatever amount of pain he was feeling, and he scrambled to get away from the oversized _alebrije_ before she overtook him. He had no idea what Pepita wanted from him, and no desire to find out.

Another roar followed by the ground shaking told him that she was getting closer, now, and he had to act fast. Spotting an iron stairway jutting out of the side of a nearby building, he set to work climbing the fire escape, ignoring the pain it sent shooting through his cracked tibia. Pepita was below the balcony, now, yowling up at him, and he backed up against the wall of the building. _Gata estúpida_ , he thought with a smug grin, looking from the thin rickety stairs to the massive _alebrije_.

Pepita cocked her head before suddenly springing up, her front claws latching onto the balcony railing.

His legs nearly buckled in horror. _¡Héctor estúpido!_

With another distressed yowl, Pepita swung one of her wings at Héctor, evidently trying to push him closer to her. He ducked beneath the wing before hopping onto the edge of the stair railing, that he slid down until he flew off the bottom, rolling onto the cobblestone. His ribs were in agony as his frame bounced on the ground but that didn’t matter, not right now, he had to get away, and he pushed himself back up, taking off with a heavy limp.

Behind him, Pepita dropped back down and resumed her chase. It would only take her moments to catch up, so he had to be quick. There had to be something he could do to throw her off, some building or street he could duck into, or…

There was a gap between the next two buildings, and instinctively Héctor turned to run into it, only to come to a screeching halt as his body seized up.

_No, no, nononono…! Not again, he didn’t want to go in there, not again—!_

It wasn’t dark—it was midday, even—and there were no piles of crates and boxes and other junk clogging the space, but it was still an alley, much like the one from before (was it the one from before? Had he gone this way? It didn’t seem right—he was sure he’d been farther away, but he couldn’t remember), and… and was… was that…?!

A shockingly loud _yowl_ bellowed from behind him, and for lack of knowing what else he could possibly do, he staggered forward to get away from it, toward the figure that was hurrying toward him down the opposite side of the alley.

_Héctor, my friend, I have something to discuss with you._

_No, nononono_ he didn’t want to go through this again, no, not again, not again—!

Ernesto was getting closer to him, and Héctor stopped, shrinking away, his phantom heart pounding and his aching chest heaving, but he couldn’t run away this time because a very angry Pepita was directly behind him, and he couldn’t run forward because then he’d probably get grabbed again, and he wasn’t entirely sure when Ernesto had gotten so short, but he was marching right up to him—

…and right past him, and…

“Go away, _gata estúpida_! Shoo!” Something struck Pepita on the nose, and she let out a very confused _growl_. “It was bad enough when you followed me around when you were a little cat, but now you’re some big thing, chasing Papá around and scaring him half to death—!”

… _Coco_?

Trembling, Héctor turned around to see Coco, standing as straight as her stooped back would allow. She was pointing an accusing finger at Pepita, who stared at her in bewilderment. “You know what he’s been through, and you chase him around the street?! You terrible _gata_! Go away!”

Pepita’s gaze flicked over to Héctor, who flinched, but Coco stayed firm.

“I said, _go_ , _gata_!”

Giving a concerned sound Héctor couldn’t quite identify, Pepita took a few steps back before striding back into the street, though she didn’t leave. Evidently that was enough to satisfy Coco, who finally turned to face him.

Héctor’s initial reaction was to grin—how could he _not_ whenever he saw his daughter?—but his smile faltered at seeing her expression.

Coco was not happy.

Her brow was furrowed, and the look she gave him was so very much like her mother’s when she got angry… except there was something else behind it, too. Behind those narrowed glass eyes, not quite hidden by the anger, was worry—concern. Coco stepped up to him, and he barely managed to avoid flinching. “What are you _doing_ , Papá?”

 _I’m fine,_ mija _, really,_ he thought, wishing he could reassure her verbally _._ He gave a weak smile, holding up his left hand in defense, but Coco waved it off.

“You’re _not_ okay, Papá. Don’t pretend that you are.”

A mess of emotions stirred within him—he _hated_ seeing Coco so upset like this, but some part of him couldn’t help feeling offended. He… well, no, he wasn’t okay, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t handle himself. He hadn’t been okay in a good century or so, but he’d _survived_ , hadn’t he?

“Why would you jump out the window?!” Her arms were spread wide in a beseeching, bewildered manner. “You’re already hurt! How is hurting yourself more going to help?”

Héctor pointed his finger, opening his mouth to answer, but quickly faltered, and not just because of his damaged voice. _That… that’s a good question._

“Papá, _por favor_ , just come back. The doctor is still waiting for you, and he’s going to help you.”

Once again he held up his hand, shaking his head. _No, no, I don’t need—_

The concern that had been dominating Coco’s expression was quickly chased out by frustration, and she buried her face in her hands. “Why are both you and Mamá _like_ this?!”

 _I’m not—!_ Héctor wanted to protest for a moment, but once again faltered, giving his daughter a bewildered look. _Wait, wait wait wait…_ He waited until Coco was looking at him again before mouthing at her: _Your Mamá?_

Coco nodded. “ _Sí_. Mamá is always pushing herself, working harder than anyone else. She would always insist she wasn’t tired, or she felt fine, even if she’d worked herself sick.” She drew in a shaky breath. “We always joked she’d work herself to death… and she did.”

Héctor jerked back as though he’d been struck. He’d never known—she’d never told him how…

For a moment Coco was lost in thought, only to shake herself out of it. “I thought that when we died, we wouldn’t have to worry about stuff like that anymore. About working too hard, about getting hurt…” And then she glared back at Héctor again, eyes gleaming. “But I suppose that’s not what happens. You still get hurt, and then try to pretend like you’re not, and then you get hurt worse, and…”

Immediately Héctor knelt down (making sure to put weight on his good leg) and put his hand on Coco’s shoulder. _Lo siento_ , he mouthed, his chest aching, eyes burning with the effort to hold back his tears. He leaned forward, drawing her into a hug, and she slowly wrapped her arms around him.

“Papá… will you come home?” she whispered into his shoulder.

The question sent a pang through his chest, and he nodded. Of course, of course he would go home—why had he even tried to run off in the first place? He’d spent all those years just trying to come home, and then he tried to run away…?! _I need to keep them safe,_ he reminded himself, but he didn’t want to run away from home to do it. Not if it meant hurting Coco.

But letting anyone know what had really happened—who had done this to him—would hurt her, too.

 _Dios_ , what was he supposed to do?

 _What do you think you’re supposed to do?_ Cheech’s voice answered in his mind—the same words the old man had spoken to him when Héctor had posed that same question to him years ago after another bad _Dia de Muertos_ . _Get some sleep so you can_ think _clearly!_ Idiota _._

Fighting to ignore the pain in his ribs, Héctor wheezed out a laugh. _Ay_ , Chicharrón. He wouldn’t have lasted half as long as he did without that grump knocking some sense into him every so often.

Coco pulled away from his embrace, bringing him back to the present. “I just want you to get better, Papá,” she said. “We all do.”

He nodded, biting back a sigh. Yes, getting better was definitely something he wanted, though he wished there were… eh… less invasive ways to do it. Ways that involved a lot less questioning, and fewer pokes and prods from that doctor. Shakily he raised himself up to his feet, looking out toward the street he’d come from—maybe he and Coco could take their time getting home, so he could at least have a bit more time to figure out what he was supposed to say to the quack that was waiting for hi—

“ _BOWWWWOOOOOO_!”

_WOOSH!_

Instinctively ducking, Héctor and Coco watched in bewilderment at the multicolored streak that zoomed overhead, flying erratically through the alley. It clipped a wall, sending itself spinning, before reorienting itself and moving on. During this brief moment, they could both make out the shape of a dog with very, very disproportionate wings.

“…That was Dante,” Coco murmured, and Héctor’s metaphorical heart leapt. That only meant one thing—

There was a nearby growl, followed by a tremor as Pepita—who had been lurking in the street behind them—shot up into the air, flying in the opposite direction.

…And _that_ meant another.

Looking at each other in a mix of surprise and horror, they arrived at the same conclusion: Dante was bringing news to the house, and Pepita had flown off to grab Imelda. This, in turn, meant that Imelda was going to be at the house very, very soon, and was going to find that Héctor was not there. Which, in turn, meant that Héctor was going to be in trouble. If she hadn’t already discovered his absence.

 _This has not been a good day_ , Héctor thought, feeling like his bones were about to crumple.

“It’s all right,” Coco said. “Mamá won’t know you were gone.”

When he gave her a look that clearly asked _how_ , her eyes glinted in a mischievous smile.

And, moments later, Héctor found himself in his daughter’s arms as she bolted with surprising speed toward their house.  

 

* * *

 

“…and that was size twelve, you remember, right? I still can’t believe he wants blue! _Blue_ , can you believe it? That’s not his color at all!  And you know I don’t think he really looks very good in that style either but that’s what he wants, and you know he’s probably just going to complain to me about it, but he’ll be complaining to me about it if I don’t order exactly what he wants, and…”

Having finished writing the order some time ago, Victoria gazed up over her glasses to eye the customer, never breaking eye contact. The fact that this prevented her from actually seeing the woman properly was irrelevant; what mattered more was the impression it gave off.

Sure enough, the woman seemed to notice that Victoria was not responding to a word she was saying. Her rambling came to a slow, graceless, stammering halt, and she took off her hat to fiddle with it. “Yes. Um. I think that’s everything, then.”

Without another word, Victoria ripped the carbon copy sheet out from beneath the order form, handing it to the woman. “Come back in two weeks.”

And not _two minutes before closing_.

The customer gave an uneasy nod, stuffing the copy into her handbag and shuffling out the door.

As soon as the door was shut, Victoria bolted it, and heaved an exasperated sigh. Running the counter on Saturdays wasn’t the _worst_ job—especially since they closed at noon—but it certainly wasn’t the best when idiot customers didn’t know when to shut their mouths. _Ay._

This day had been… different, however. Rather than merely taking orders and enduring small talk with customers, Victoria had been scrutinizing the people who came in, looking for any suspicious activity. While she wasn’t entirely sure what she was looking for other than a tacky “I heart DLC” shirt or a customer humming one of those stolen songs, she at least felt like she was doing _something_ to aid in the situation. She’d made a mental note—and, on the back of an old receipt, _physical_ notes—of each customer’s name and appearance, should they become important later.

Héctor might have been a scrappy runaway musician, but he was living under the Rivera roof. And anyone living in the Rivera household was their responsibility, family or not.

Once the cash drawer was counted and the shop was properly locked up, Victoria stepped out the back door of the shop, looking toward the house and wondering if the rest of her family had found out anything new about Héctor’s situation.

“Arf! _Arf_!”

Victoria ducked as an _alebrije_ swooped overhead and slammed into the wall of the shop. Unfazed, she stepped up to him as he dropped onto the ground, momentarily dazed. With a snap of her fingers, she got his attention, and the winged dog gazed up at her, tongue lolling and tail wagging. Around his neck was a dark blue collar that stood out against the colorful hide, and around that, a rolled envelope.

“The house is _that_ way,” she said, gesturing at the building behind them.

With a delighted _bark_ , Dante lifted himself into the air again. He made what he had probably intended as a beeline (and looked more like a swerve) to the house, only to stumble over the porch steps and roll into the door.

Smiling, Victoria followed after the sorry mutt as he squirmed to get himself upright again. She may not have been much of a dog person, but Dante was always a good sign—it meant Miguel was sending news over from the Land of the Living. _That_ was more than enough for her to set aside her distaste for canines whenever Dante came around.

Just before she reached the door, it swung open as both of her twin _tíos_ stepped onto the porch and spoke up simultaneously: “Coco?” “Héctor?”

And before Victoria could question just what they were expecting her Mamá and Héctor for, Dante bolted into the house, plowing through the twins. She caught Óscar’s head with practiced ease, stepping over Felipe as he scrambled for his own skull.

“ _H-hola_ , Victoria!” Tio Óscar said, wincing as when she shoved him back onto his body. “We were just—”

“—wondering if Coco and Héctor had—”

“—come back from their walk!”

“ _Si._ ” Victoria eyed her uncles as they sorted out their misplaced bones. “Their _walk_.”

“Yes! Just a walk—”

“—a jog—”

“—a stroll around the neighborhood.”

With a raise of her brow, Victoria crossed her arms. “With Héctor’s broken leg.”

The twins exchanged glances. “Then I suppose you could say—”

“—they went for a _limp_?”

Rolling her eyes, Victoria turned toward the dining room, blinking when she spotted a note sitting on the table. It was addressed to Héctor, but she skimmed over it nonetheless. “So you called for a doctor?”

“ _Sí_ , that’s right.”

“He’ll be returning when—”

“—Héctor gets back.”

“Yes,” Victoria glanced back at them. “When he comes back from his _walk_.”

A loud whine interrupted any further conversation, leading everyone to stare at the multicolored dog that was plopped on the floor between the foyer and dining room. Ears drooping, he appeared forlorn and betrayed, looking around the room with his big mismatched eyes.

“ _Sí_ , Dante, I’m coming!” Rosita called from the kitchen. A moment later she hurried out, holding a bone-shaped treat for Dante.

Immediately the dog perked up, jumping to snap the treat out of Rosita’s hand. While he was busy with that, Victoria stepped up to him and snatched the envelope off of his collar.

“I suppose it’s good that the doctor had to step out,” Rosita said as she watched Dante gnaw at the treat. “I’m not sure how we would’ve explained all this to him.”

“Oh that’s easy!” Tío Óscar said, reaching over to Tío Felipe’s hat to swap it with the one he was currently wearing.

“We’d just tell him it’s a message from—”

“—another family member!”

“He lives far away.”

“Several towers away.”

“More than a few—”

Victoria waved her hand. “I think it _is_ better that he didn’t stay,” she said, looking over the envelope and carefully peeling it open. “Should we wait for the others?”

As if on cue, the door slammed open, and from the way her Mamá stood balanced on one leg, it had apparently been _kicked_ open. This fact was slightly less bewildering considering she was carrying a full grown man in her arms. Said man, upon glancing around the house and all the people staring at him, looked mortified.

Raising a brow, Victoria regarded the two evenly. “Back from your walk, Mamá?”

“What walk?” Coco said, and set Héctor on his feet.

“Oh, yes,” Felipe said quickly. “They never left.”

“They were here the whole time.”

“Never stepped foot outside.”

“Spontaneously became agoraphobic.”

Victoria wondered if it was too late to down what remained of this morning’s pot of coffee.

As Héctor hobbled to the far corner of the foyer and Coco dusted herself off, a distant roar from outside announced the arrival of yet more people. A dull _thud_ outside signified that Pepita had landed, and moments later, Mamá Imelda and her papá were stepping through the door.

“…wh-when do you think we should ask Héctor—”

Said scrappy skeleton cleared his non-existent throat. Victoria glanced from him to her papá and grandmother as they paused, seeming to take note of all the people around.

“…Are we interrupting something?” Imelda asked, quirking an eyebrow.

“ _No_ ,” answered everyone but Héctor, who couldn’t talk anyway, and Victoria, who was weighing the pros and cons of temporarily disowning her family.

An uncomfortable silence followed, interrupted only by the slobbery chewing noises from Dante as he gnawed contentedly on his treat with his few remaining teeth. Imelda’s gaze fell upon the dog, and she relaxed. “So _that’s_ why Pepita was rushing us home,” she said, stooping down for a closer look. “Where’s the letter?”

“I have it,” Victoria said, glad to finally focus on something that wasn’t ridiculous. “I was just about to start reading.”

“Go ahead, _mija_ ,” her mamá said, smiling. “What’s it say?”

While the rest of her family and Héctor moved in closer, Victoria unfolded the slightly drool-dampened papers and adjusted her glasses.

“ _Hola! Sorry it’s been so long! I’ve been busy with school and helping Mamá take care of baby Socorro. She’s already getting so big! But she doesn’t make a lot of sounds yet except for crying. I’ve been singing to her, but I think it’ll be a long time before she sings with me._ _Until then, I’m trying to set a good example._ ”

Everyone cooed and aww’d, and she was pretty sure she caught a choked sob from somewhere in the back of the crowd. Giving a faint smile, she went on:

“ _I’m sorry I don’t have pictures of her yet! I’ll send some as soon as I can, OK??_ ”

“He’d better!” Óscar snorted.

“We need two!”

“For _each_ of us!”

Victoria rolled her eyes before scanning over the next line. She paused for a moment, swallowing the lump that had formed in her throat before continuing.

“ _How is Mamá Coco? We all still miss her a lot._ Abuelita _gets really sad sometimes, but I told her that you’ll all be there next_ Dia de Muertos _._ ”

“Elena…” Papá mumbled, wrapping an arm around Mamá’s shoulder, before she returned the soft embrace.

“She’ll be all right, Julio.”

“Does it say anything else, _mija_?” Mamá Imelda asked.

Frowning, Victoria skimmed over the rest of the letter before checking the other sheet of paper that had come with it. “There’s another note at the end saying he’ll promise to send pictures next time. The rest is for Héctor.” With that, she handed the papers over to their recipient, who shakily accepted them. “Something about song lyrics.”

She stared at Héctor as he read over the letter, taking a moment to really look him over now that things were slightly less chaotic. His bad leg was raised and leaning against the other like a bad imitation of a flamingo, the condition of his ribs made her suppress a shudder, and the absence of his right hand was a strange sight to say the least.  He’d certainly had a number done on him.

“I’d like to hear about Miguelito’s song,” Mamá said, stepping closer to Héctor, who held the letter out so she could read as well. He seemed upset about something, and Coco frowned. “Oh… how are we going to do that?”

“Do what?” The rest of the letter hadn’t said anything unusual, from what Victoria had seen. Miguel had just been asking for Héctor to read over part of a song he’d written, and try out a few cords to see how it—

Her gaze suddenly flicked back to Héctor’s right arm. “Oh.”

“Miguel wants Papá to play part of a song for him,” Coco explained to the others, “so he can write back, and let Miguel know how it sounds.”

When everyone turned to stare at Héctor, he only grimaced, tucking his right arm underneath his vest. Their gazes then turned to Mamá Imelda, who was rubbing her forehead.

“Should we… tell Miguel what happened?” Papá asked, fiddling with the rim of his hat.

“Oooh, that would upset him.” Rosita shook her head. “You don’t think he would try to curse himself again to come back and help?”

That remark caused several of them to look at Imelda in alarm, but she only shook her head. “I would hope Miguel would know better than to try that, but we can’t risk him putting himself in danger. It’s best if we don’t let him know.”

“Won’t he be suspicious if Héctor doesn’t reply to the letter?” Victoria asked, eying the man in question. He was looking over his left hand and flexing it. “Even if he did, he’d have to lie about the song, which I’m sure Miguel would notice.”

“His bones are still mending,” Imelda said suddenly, looking up at Héctor. “Miguel saw the condition of your bones, _sí_?”

The man nodded, but the look he gave her seemed to say “where are you going with this?”

“We’ll write back, and tell Miguel that Héctor’s broken arm is being treated by a doctor. He won’t be able to play until he’s fully healed.”

“Oh! That could work!” Óscar said.

“And it’s not _technically_ a lie,” Felipe added.

“Exactly.” Taking the letter from Coco, Imelda handed it over to Victoria. “Go ahead and tell him that, and that we’ll be happy to hear any updates about Socorro.”

“Especially pictures!” Rosita exclaimed with a hopeful smile.

“ _Si_ ,” Victoria said as she sorted through some nearby drawers to search for a pen and paper. “I’ll also let him know that Mamá is doing quite well, and taking regular walks with Héctor.”

“…Walks?”

Taking the stumbling noises behind her to mean that Héctor was trying to make an escape upstairs, Victoria smirked.

“Come to think of it, Héctor, what _are_ you doing out of bed?”

While Imelda got started on interrogating Héctor, Victoria sat at the table and set to work writing out a reply to Miguel. A few words in, however, she felt a hand on her shoulder, and looked up to see her mamá giving her a look.

“ _Mija_ ,” she whispered, “I was _trying_ to keep your _abuelito_ out of trouble.”

Victoria frowned, tapping the top of her pen against the table. “Héctor can keep himself out of trouble by not trying to run away from the doctor,” she hissed, “and making it harder for us to fix this mess.”

Her mamá’s grip tightened on her shoulder. “He shouldn’t have run off, but you aren’t helping, Victoria.” She looked to the stairs, and Victoria followed her gaze to see Héctor making a valiant attempt at communicating silently with Imelda. From the way he was gesturing with his hand, he was apparently insisting that he’d only come downstairs when they’d all heard Dante. When Imelda stared pointedly at his broken leg, he paused, then repeated the “walking downstairs” hand motion much, much slower.

“Your _abuelito_ has had a very hard time, _mija_ ,” Coco went on. “You can help by going a little easier on him.”

Victoria gripped her pen tighter, setting her jaw before going back to writing the letter.

“What happened to that doctor you were going to call?” Imelda asked, turning to face the others.

Victoria looked up as Tío Óscar quickly stepped in front of Tío Felipe as his brother snatched the doctor’s note from the table. “He couldn’t come right away,” Óscar lied.

“He’ll be here tonight!” Felipe affirmed, slipping the note into his pocket.

“I see.” Nodding, Imelda turned back to Héctor. “Let’s get _you_ back upstairs until then. Unless you think you’re as good walking upstairs as down.”

Looking back down at her work, Victoria tuned out the sound of Héctor attempting to pull himself up the stairs, Imelda following him, and Rosita fighting to keep Dante from flying off again. The letter didn’t take long to finish, and as she went to grab an envelope and some tape, she heard her papá speak up.

“So… we found the apartment he was taken into,” Julio said. The rest of the family were all standing around him, listening intently. Dante gave a quiet _woof_ , pulling for the door, but Rosita held him back. “Unfortunately that’s about it… The police are starting their investigation, but they won’t know what exactly to look for until Héctor gives his statement.”

“Can he give a statement in his condition?” Victoria asked, folding up the letter.

“He can write with his left hand,” Coco said, gesturing with her own hand.

“Not _well_ ,” Óscar remarked.

And Felipe finished, “But it’s better than nothing.”

Victoria considered asking if he would even _want_ to give a statement, given how keen he seemed on starting up his old habit of running away from his problems, but she kept her mouth shut. Instead she slipped the letter into the envelope before stooping down to tape it around Dante’s collar. Once this was accomplished, she opened the door, allowing Dante to bolt outside.

While Dante flew off, Pepita watched him from the courtyard, her long tail flicking in agitation. The big _alebrije_ looked back at the house, ears folded back, and lay down, claws digging into the dirt.

As the others moved on to discuss lunch plans, Victoria looked from the _alebrije_ laying outside, and back to the stairway where she supposed Imelda had probably carried the two-time runaway upstairs. _I understand how you feel, Pepita,_ she thought, frowning as she shut the door and gazing up in the direction of Héctor’s room.

_This whole thing bothers me, too._


	11. Alebrije Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Pepita has a plan, and Rosita is totally not eavesdropping on anyone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAHAHAHA GUESS WHO'S UPDATING ON TIME??? IT'S ME and I don't know if I'll be able to keep this up but HEY I'M UPDATING ON TIME THIS ONE TIME!! Thanks to PaperGardener and Jaywings for beta-reading this for me!
> 
> YOOO I GOT MORE GIFTART! StarryDewDrops drew me this awesome thing [here](https://www.deviantart.com/starrydewdrops/art/Neither-Can-You-Fanart-Coco-756400666)! Check it out!
> 
> This chapter is going to be a liiiittle bit different, so I hope you dudes are okay with that. Let's go!

 

Things were not well with her family. Pepita could feel it in the growl barely contained within her chest, in the tension of her claws, in the anxiety that crackled through her feathers and fur.

It didn’t help that there had been tension between Imelda’s mate and the rest of the family for a couple months now. As always, she could sense the heightened emotions in her Imelda the most clearly—there was a lot of anger still there, a lot of frustration, some fear and worry… and love, too, but that was to be expected between mates. Pepita had been trying to calm Imelda when she could, but there was only so much she could do.

But then, it wasn’t just Imelda she had to look after.

There was also her mate.

For decades now she’d watched him trespassing on their territory, always hunting for Imelda. Pepita had always known who he was, no matter how Imelda felt, and knew that, like any mates, they needed to be together. But that was difficult to accomplish with the fiery anger still roaring through Imelda’s bones, so Pepita had done what she could to keep the mate away until things were safer for him.

After That One Night, though, a lot of things had changed. Namely, Imelda’s fires had calmed significantly, and her mate was tolerated in their territory.

Tolerated. Not welcomed.

Some of the litter took to him faster than the others—especially his own kitten—but there was still much work to be done.

Still, Pepita had thought that she could figure him out. She may not have been as closely attuned to him as she was to her Imelda, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t try. The mate may have been as awkward and antsy as a half-grown kitten, but he was Imelda’s mate, and if Pepita wanted to help Imelda, she had to help _him_.

Then Last Night had happened.

Pepita let out a growl, standing up and pacing around the yard. _Ay_ , humans made messes of each other. To make matters worse, the ones on this side of the veil did not bear as strong scents as the others, making them harder to track. What a shame—she would have loved to hunt whoever fought with her Imelda’s mate. She hadn’t had a good hunt in a while. But the mate was left in quite a bad state, and with a great deal of emotional distress—enough to reach Imelda, which, in turn, reached her.

And she could _feel_ it—their fear that pulled at her heart, their sadness that made her wings heavy, their anxiety and worry that constantly itched at her fur.

She needed to help him, but not being properly attuned to him made things difficult, and… and…!

Whipping her tail back and forth, she ceased in her pacing and stared out past her family’s territory.

She knew there was a Solution. As a guide, a protector, an _alebrije_ , she always knew when there was a Solution, even if she didn’t immediately know what it was—and she knew there was a Solution to this problem.

It wasn’t until an hour or so ago that she found out just what this Solution was.

She did not like it.

Of course, it didn’t matter whether she liked it or not. She could feel it tugging at her wings, at her bones, at her very core, and it would continue to do so until she sought it out. Even so… she wished _this_ were not the Solution.

Ceasing her pacing and stretching out over the ground, she lay down, wondering if perhaps the pulling sensation would go away. It was irritating—it reminded her of when she was a mere cat, and Imelda’s kitten would tug incessantly at her tail. It was never hard enough to hurt, but it was annoying, and it always dragged her in a direction she did not want to go.

Fiery anger, not her own, flickered through her chest, followed by anxiety that caused her fur to swell just as the daytime humidity did. Flicking her ears toward the house, she could hear shouts, broken bones creaking. Things were not well in her territory, and they would continue to be unwell until she did something.

Until she found the Solution.

There was nothing else to it, then.

Drawing in a deep breath, she sat up, muscles coiling, and sprang into the air.

The flight toward the veil was an uneventful one as the great towers moved past her and grew more and more distant. True, she could have flown closer to them, perhaps to pick out any scents of interest, but that was not the Solution right now. For once in her long, long life, she wished she could ignore her instincts, but that never led anywhere pleasant. Instead she avoided the towers completely until they grew distant behind her, and she was left to fly over the vast sea, closer and closer to her destination.

With a great roar, she swooped downward, closing in on the veil, toward the invisible ground that she knew by instinct.

The second she landed, her body changed—no longer was she an enormous spirit creature, but a small, unassuming cat, just as she had been when she’d first graced this world. For a moment she sat in the empty space where the petals would touch down, where the families on both sides of the veil would gather once a year, and she glanced around calmly, gathering her thoughts.

Pepita knew what she had to do, but to go about doing it…

Well, she would figure out something.

With a flick of her silver tail, she bolted out past the stone markers of the dead and down the streets of the town. Many people were out this time of day, so she slipped into the alleys, climbed atop trash bins, boxes, and windows, until she was able to reach the roofs of the houses. From there, she made her way to her Imelda’s old territory, where her living kittens still resided.

But it wasn’t anyone in the litter she was after.

Stalking around the roofs and scanning the ground of their territory, she finally found what she was looking for, lying in the shade of one of the buildings by a pile of wood.

Dante was snoring contentedly, his paws occasionally twitching up to his collar in his sleep. Pepita observed this for a moment before hopping down from the roof, landing on a metal drum with a faint _thrum_. There she sat, waiting.

Sure enough, Dante’s nose began to twitch, and he squirmed in his sleep before suddenly opening his eyes, looking up (or down?) to meet Pepita’s gaze.

[ _¡Gata!_ ] he barked, rolling over so he was lying upright. [ _¡Hola, gata!_ ]

Pepita’s tail gave an annoyed flick, her ears twitching back. [That is not my name.]

[ _¡Hola Pepita-gataaaaa!_ ] Tail wagging in what Pepita had to remind herself was _not_ an aggressive gesture, the dog hopped around the barrel in excitement. [ _¡Hola, hola!_ ] He then bowed himself, head and front legs low to the ground and tail up in the air. [Play?]

Pepita did not acknowledge the gesture.

After waiting for a few seconds, Dante gave a whine of disappointment as he picked himself up from the ground, only to jump to the side, repeating the same gesture. [Play now?]

[No, Dante,] she said. [That is not what I am here for.]

Dante stared, then his tail gave a hopeful wag. [Play later?]

[ _No._ ]

Whining, the dog sat upright, scratching at his collar until it spun in a circle around his neck. [Why is Pepita- _gata_ here?] The tag of the collar thwapped him in the face, and suddenly he brightened. [TREATS?!]

_Ay, perros._ [No, Dante, no treats.] She leaned down, eying him more closely. [I must discuss _alebrije_ duties with you. Spirit duties.] _Unfortunately._

Dante tipped his head to one side before realization hit him, and his ears perked. [Oooo _oooh_! _¡Muy importante!_ ]

[ _Sí_ , Dante.] Closing her eyes for a moment in relief, she sat back upright—finally she was getting him on track. [How are your kittens doing?]

The dog blinked a few times, but then his tail wagged. [Ah! My master is very good!] His tongue lolled in a pleased expression. [He sends me with messages to the bone people! The large bone lady gives me treats! And then I come home, and my master gives me treats! So many treats!]

_Spoiled_ perro _,_ she thought, even if the idea of treats made her salivate as well. [But how is he doing?]

[He is happy! Sometimes. When he sleeps he is sometimes not happy, but I snuggle with him because I am a good _perro_ and a good spirit guide! And then he pets me and is happy again.] Lifting one of his front legs, he began to gnaw at it. [And he sings, and plays _música_ on the large bone-shaped thing I am not allowed to bite. And! And! Sometimes before he sings, he howls! Like this!] And Dante threw his head back, giving a demonstration.

Pepita growled, pulling her head back and folding her ears in irritation. But it was good, at least, to hear that he was doing his job in helping the younger kitten—his Miguel.

“Dante? Was that you?”

Both Pepita and Dante perked up as a young human came around the side of the house. Immediately Dante rushed up to him, hopping around him on his back legs and trying to lick his face. [ _MASTER_! _¡Hola, Master, hola!_ I have missed you for a whole half an hour while you were gone!]

Miguel laughed, shoving Dante away good-naturedly and scratching him behind the ear. “Okay, boy, okay! What were you howling abou… oh!” He spotted Pepita sitting on the barrel and grinned at her. “ _¡Hola, gato!_ ”

Pepita blinked at him slowly. She didn’t mind that he didn’t recognize her immediately—she hadn’t been watching him closely until very recently, and even then, most of her focus was on the family on the other side.

As the boy approached her, she stood up, stretching, and kept her tail in the air in a friendly gesture. Miguel reached his hand out to her, and she gladly met it, butting her head into his palm and allowing him to scratch her.

“Are you Dante’s friend?”

Dante jumped around the boy’s heels, barking. [ _¡Sí, sí!_ That is Pepita- _gata_! She is very small here! But I am not small! I am the same!]

Miguel, of course, could not understand his _alebrije’s_ words, but Pepita heard them just fine. They tugged at her heart for reasons the dog did not intend, but she wasn’t going to let him know that just yet. Backing away from Miguel’s hand, she looked pointedly at Dante, then back to him.

“…Wait.” Stooping lower, the boy looked into Pepita’s eyes, and she blinked at him slowly. “Hey, you’re not…?”

[ _¡Sí! ¡Sí!_ She is Pepita- _gata_! That is what I told you, master!]

“… _Pepita_?”

Giving a rumbling _purr_ , Pepita bumped her head against his.

[ _Sí_ , Master! I am very glad you can understand me!]

Grinning, Miguel scratched around Pepita’s chin. “It’s good to see you again! Hey…” He pulled away, looking at her seriously. “Dante’s been sending messages to Papá Héctor and the others—”

Dante barked. [ _¡Sí!_ I have! I am a good spirit guide!]

“But they said… they said that Papá Héctor can’t play his guitar right now, because of his arm.” Miguel held his own arm, brow furrowing. “Is he okay?”

Pepita purred louder. _No, he is not, but you are not to be worried with that._

Her gesture seemed enough to pacify the boy, and he smiled again. “That’s good. But do you know how long he—”

“Miguel!” a voice called from one of the buildings. “Can you bring me a diaper and some wipes?”

Miguel made a face. “I gotta go,” he said, and rushed around the side of the house again. “Coming, Mamá!”

Dante almost ran after him, but Pepita leaped down, swatting at the dog’s leg to get his attention. [Dante.]

Turning around, Dante’s tongue lolled. [ _Hola_ again, Pepita- _gata_!]

[I still have more to discuss with you. _Muy importante._ ]

[ _¡Si!_ ] He sat down, inspecting one of his back legs. [ _Muy importante_ spirit guide business.]

[ _…Sí._ ] Pepita watched as the dog began chewing on his leg, hoping that meant he was still paying attention. [Dante… Do you remember That One Night? When your kitten came to the other side?]

[Uh…] With a shake of his head, Dante seemed to consider the question. [Oh! When I took him to see the tall bone man? And kept them together?]

[ _Sí._ And you recall when…] Her fur bristled at the memory. […the _bad man_ took your kitten, and threw him off a cliff?]

At that, Dante shuffled backward, pawing at his nose. [ _Sí…_ ] he whimpered, his tail curling around his body. [The _bad man_ had my master, and I could not get him back. My master was falling, and I could not pick him up.]

Pepita could feel the dog’s sorrow on her shoulders, and, against her better judgment, purred to get his attention. [You were too small to lift him… but your kitten did not die. I was able to catch him, and I stopped the bad man.]

Immediately the dog brightened, leaning forward and licking her across the face. [ _¡SÍ!_ You saved him! You are a good _perro_! A good spirit guide!]

Growling, she swatted Dante away, quickly licking her paw and washing her face. Once the spit was gone, she looked him in the eye. [Your kitten—your Miguel—is the one you are guiding, but you were not able to help him then, so I had to help.]

[ _¡Sí!_ You did a very good job!] His tail was thumping against the ground again, tongue lolling.

[Now I must ask you for help.]

It seemed to take a moment for Dante to register this as he tipped his head to one side, then to the other, ears flopping back and forth. But when he understood, he jumped to his feet, barking in surprise. [Pepita- _gata_ needs _my_ help?!] Barking again, he ran around her in a circle. [I can help! Help Pepita- _gata_ take care of my master!]

[No, Dante, _no_. I need your help in taking care of my Imelda’s mate. The tall bone man.]

At that, Dante stopped, blinking at Pepita a few times. [ _¿…Qué?_ _Gata_ cannot help the tall bone man?]

One again she felt a sorrow weigh on her shoulders—this time, her own. […No.]

[But Pepita- _gata_ is big! Big in the other place, with the bone people!]

[ _Sí._ That is the problem.] She found herself laying down, her tail curled around her body tightly. [I am _too_ big. I frighten him, and cannot follow him to protect him.]

[Protect?] Dante whimpered. [Why does the tall bone man need protect?]

[Imelda’s mate was… hurt. He is not well, and is very scared. I can protect him, sometimes, but he is afraid of me, and will run and hide in places I cannot get into. But you…] Pepita looked back up at Dante, who, to her surprise, seemed to be giving her as serious a look as he was able. [You are still small on the other side. You can stay with him, and follow him, and he will not be afraid of you.]

Dante seemed to consider this before going back to his usual expression, tongue lolling and tail wagging. [ _¡Sí!_ I can help the tall bone man!] And immediately he made to run out of the family’s territory and toward the veil, only to stop before he reached the edge of the house. [Oh! But my master…!] He looked back at Pepita with a whimper. [Who will take care of my master?]

Rising to her feet, Pepita followed the dog, looking toward the house that Miguel had entered several minutes ago. [I will stay here and watch the kittens. But the family on the other side needs you.]

Looking between Pepita and the house a few times, Dante finally looked her in the eyes. [ _Sí._ I will take care of the tall bone man, and you will stay here and take care of my master.]

Pepita sighed. [ _Sí_ , Dante. That is right.] After a second of contemplation, she nuzzled the dog’s shoulder. [Take good care of him and my Imelda.]

[ _¡Sí!_ And you be a good spirit guide while I am gone.] His head dipped downward, and he licked her across the face. This time, she didn’t immediately object. [ _¡Adios, Pepita-gata!_ ]

With that, Dante trotted out of the family’s territory before taking off in a full bolt down the street. Pepita watched him go, then immediately got to work washing her face again.

Dante may have been a _perro estúpido_ , but… he _was_ an _alebrije_. He knew what he was doing. Or… she hoped so, anyway. But that was what her instincts told her the Solution was, and they had never steered her wrong before. Perhaps this would turn out all right.

Slipping into the house, Pepita slunk around until she came into the living room. There she spotted them—Miguel and the youngest kitten snuggled up on the couch, with the tiny one in the boy’s lap. With a pleasant _chirrup_ , she hopped up next to them, curling up at Miguel’s side and purring.

“ _Hola_ again, Pepita.” Miguel adjusted the tiny human that lay half-asleep on his lap and smiled down at her. “Soccoro, this is Pepita, see? She’s a spirit guide, too, like Dante, but don’t tell anyone.”

That was right. And like Dante, she would keep them safe, no matter what.

 

* * *

 

 

Rosita knew that she was not supposed to be eavesdropping. After all, the conversation between Mamá Imelda and Papá Héctor was clearly meant to be private, given they were both in his room, and the door was shut. But, well… it couldn’t exactly be helped if she had discovered that the staircase between the second and third floors was a very pleasant place to sit and read, and she happened to overhear bits of their conversation from where she sat. Besides, it wasn’t as though Imelda was always the quietest conversationalist, especially when it came to her husband.

However, the conversation they were currently having was… not the happiest thing to listen to.

“You are _not_ getting out of this, Héctor,” came Mamá Imelda’s voice, volume raised slightly in anger. “I told the police you would give them your statement, and you _will_ do it.”

_Ay, pobrecito Héctor._ From what she’d seen and heard, she couldn’t blame him at all for not wanting to talk about what had happened. He’d already been in very rough shape when he’d first stayed at their house—he couldn’t walk without limping, and at times he struggled to lift things with his broken arm. Now his ribcage was a mess, and his throat was all torn up, and his hand…! She couldn’t even imagine what had been done to him, and she doubted he wanted to think about it, either.

“I know it’s not easy to talk about,” Imelda went on, more calmly this time, “but the more information we give to the police, the easier time they’ll have identifying whoever did this to you.”

She did have a point. It was scary to think that whoever had hurt Héctor was still roaming around… and if Victoria’s guess was correct, it was a supporter of Héctor’s murderer, to boot! How could someone support someone so vile, enough do something like _that_ to his victim?!

Rosita sighed, setting her book aside for the moment. Imelda hadn’t been wrong all those years ago, back when she’d said that a love of music could make one do terrible things. But music also brought them so much joy, and to take that away from Héctor…! This person _needed_ to be incarcerated, clearly. Surely Papá Héctor would agree to that?

“ _Héctor_! Do you want this _cabron_ to be taken care of or not?! _…Ay, dios mio._ ”

Or not.

Shifting uncomfortably where she sat, she thought back to earlier that day, when Papá Héctor had been panicking at the sound of her knocking at the door, and when he’d jumped out the window to avoid the doctor. Clearly he was not well in more ways than just physically… Given how scared he’d been then, she wouldn’t be surprised if he were just as scared now. If Mamá Imelda just let him rest and relax for a little, perhaps he would feel strong enough to talk about whatever had happened to him.

_What he needs is some rest, and maybe some tea,_ she thought. That usually calmed _her_ down, anyway.

That decided, Rosita stood up and began to descend the stairs. But the second she reached the first floor—

_BAM!_

All of the Riveras who weren’t already standing leapt to their feet, immediately facing the front door. Something had clearly slammed into it, and now that something was scratching at it, and whining—

“Dante?!” Rosita cried out, rushing to open the door.

Sure enough, as soon as she opened the door, the _alebrije_ scurried into the house, looking around intently.

“That was fast,” Victoria remarked, approaching the dog to check his collar.

Rosita wasted no time in heading for the kitchen to grab a treat, but stopped when Victoria spoke up again:

“Where’s the letter?”

“Oh, _no_!”

“Could it have gotten lost?”

“But Miguelito always tapes it to his collar securely…”

Rosita turned around to see the family gathered around Dante, scrutinizing the dog for any signs of where the new letter could have gone… but something wasn’t right. “Wait,” she said, and the others turned to her. “Why isn’t he whining for a treat?”

Sure enough, Dante was not moping on the floor like he had been earlier, but was instead sniffing intently around the foyer. Without warning he lifted his head with a loud _bark_ , and began scrambling up the stairs.

“Where’s he going?!”

Rosita was the first to follow the dog as he scampered up the first, then the second flight of stairs. She reached the third floor moments after he did, just in time to see Mamá Imelda peer out of the door to Héctor’s room, likely looking for the source of the noise. But Dante paid her no mind, running through her in order to get into the room.

Oh dear.

Hurrying to the door, Rosita found Imelda leaning against the wall, looking rather stunned as she replaced her left tibia and everything below it in an unpracticed manner. Héctor, meanwhile, was sitting back against the headrest of his bed, fighting to push Dante away as the dog tried to lick his face.

Rosita’s first instinct was to pull the dog away and apologize profusely to both of them, but then she saw something that made her pause:

Héctor was smiling.

Apparently Dante had given up on trying to give Papá Héctor kisses, for now he curled up at the man’s side, heaving a contented sigh. Héctor rested his hand on the dog’s head; he was still breathing hard, after the rush of having an _alebrije_ jump at him, but seemed to be calming down.

“…Mamá Imelda,” Rosita said, turning to face her. “You and Héctorcito have had a very long day and night. Perhaps it would be best if both of you get some rest before getting back to this police business.”

Hearing that, Héctor looked up and nodded slowly, his face drawn in exhaustion.

Imelda looked from Héctor, to Dante, to Rosita, and heaved a sigh. “I suppose so. Perhaps some rest will help us think through this a bit more clearly.”

Smiling, Rosita nodded at the both of them before heading toward the door. “We’ll leave you to that, then, Papá Héctor,” she said, opening the door for Imelda.

Imelda hesitated for a moment before moving toward the door. Before she stepped out, however, she turned to face him again. “You _will_ give the police a statement later. _¿Entiendes?_ ”

When Héctor gave a slow nod in reply, Imelda was apparently satisfied, and stepped out.

Rosita waited until Imelda was out of earshot before turning back to Héctor, who appeared to be inspecting Dante, tugging gently at one of his wings. “I don’t think it would be a good idea to jump out that window again. Dante’s wings are too small to support you.”

Héctor heaved a short sigh, but gave her a good-natured smile, mouthing a word to her: _joking_.

Rosita smiled back. But before she retreated downstairs, she left him with one last thought: “We’re all here for you, Papá Héctor. We can help you, if you let us.”

With that she shut the door, hoping her words, along with the friendly _alebrije_ snoozing next to him, would help him rest.

 


	12. The Sound

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Ernesto prepares his next move.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hiya folks. I'm on time with another chapter, but I have some bad news--due to a family emergency, I don't know when I'll be able to update this fic (or my short story collection) again. I'm not giving up on this fic or my oneshots anytime soon--I am still very much interested in working on them and want to see them through the end. However, in the words of a certain 12-year-old I'm sure you're familiar with, "Family comes first."
> 
> Thanks to Jaywings and PaperGardener for beta-reading this for me. Also, thanks to Pengychan for letting me borrow the names she used for the chihuahua alebrijes.

His phalanges danced effortlessly across the strings, coaxing the same notes out of the guitar that had won over the hearts of millions. Well… the notes plus the sound of his voice, of course, but he wasn’t much in the mood for singing right now.

Honestly he wasn’t much in the mood for playing, either.

_When life gets me down, I play my guitar._

The memory of the line left a bitter taste in his mouth. While they’d always allowed him a little creative liberty over the scripts, that was one bit the writer had been so _proud_ of, and everyone else had agreed that it was a lovely line. And, always one to keep up good relations, Ernesto had let that one slide, even if he couldn’t fully agree with it. True, playing his guitar did tend to ease his pain… but only when people were there to _listen_.

And here in an apartment three towers down from where his mansion stood, there was nobody to hear him play. No one aside from that stupid neighbor of his who would hit his broom against the ceiling if Ernesto played too loud, anyway.

Heaving a sigh, Ernesto moved to set the guitar aside, only to give a sharp gasp at the sound of something scratching at the side of the chair—

_Scratching, kicking, scraping, screaming—_

_No, no, that’s not what it is._ Shuddering, he glanced down at the floor to find Diablo looking at him with his big eyes. “What, you want me to keep playing?” he asked, and the _alebrije_ wagged his tail eagerly. He couldn’t help but smile at the sight, and stooped down to scratch the chihuahua behind the ears. “Well, I suppose you’re a better audience than none at all.”

He re-settled the guitar in his lap, starting up a different song this time—a more energetic one. Even without singing along, he could still hear the words in his head as he played:

_Senoras y senores_

_Buenas tardes, buenas noches_

_Buenas tardes, buenas noches_

_Senoritas y senores…_

_You like it,_ hermano _? I wrote it for us! We can start with it as our opening num—_

His hand seized up and abruptly he stopped playing, setting the guitar aside and rising to his feet.

 _Basta_ —that was enough practice for one day.

Gritting his teeth, he crossed the room and strode into the kitchen. The other _alebrijes_ —who had been intermittently whining at him all day—immediately charged after him, yipping the entire time. Ernesto automatically went to fill up their food bowls (cheap plastic ones that he took a moment to scowl at—their nicer ones were still at the mansion) before pouring himself his third cup of coffee for the day.

Not his usual comfort drink, but _that_ would probably lull him into a doze, which he did not want right now.

Ernesto watched the _alebrijes_ chomping at their food, glad to see them apparently satisfied for the time being. He loved his pets—he truly did—but ever since he’d been forced to take a temporary leave from his mansion, they’d been _insufferable_. Constantly whining, constantly upset, constantly trying to pull him around to different places… He couldn’t blame them for being upset at suddenly being moved to a newer, much smaller home—he wasn’t particularly happy with it either—but it didn’t make them any easier to deal with.

“Soon we’ll be back home,” he said absently, not entirely sure if they understood or were even listening to begin with. Though Clara did look up at him, cocking her head for a moment before resuming her meal. “Soon everything will be taken care of, and we can go home, and go back to sharing our music with the world.”

He hoped so, anyway.

Exhaustion tugged at his bones as he leaned against the counter, resting his head in his hand.

It had all been… more _difficult_ than he’d expected.

At the start it wasn’t too hard—more annoying than anything. He hadn’t lost his money or any of his possessions, exactly—he’d been moved out of the mansion for his own protection for the time being. He still had what he needed to pay his guards and his… associates… and it wasn’t like he was actually in trouble with the police. No one was ever punished for crimes they committed in life—death was supposed to be a “fresh start” of sorts.

Not that people wouldn’t still hold those crimes against you, of course.

But more than that—he hadn’t, exactly, done anything _illegal_ that night. Nothing any more illegal than he’d done before, anyway. A few of his paid “friends” already knew about the _cenote_ and how he used it, and as for the child… well, there were no laws against harming the living. (There were _now_ , but retroactive punishment wasn’t really a thing here.)

No, none of _that_ had been the problem. He’d committed no crimes, and the police really couldn’t do anything to him, in spite of what the newspapers said. (“DLC Still On the Loose!” read one headline a month ago, as though he were actually on the run.) The problem wasn’t any of that—it was the public’s perception of him.

That entire mess had been recorded, somehow, and there was little to be done about that. Oh, he still retained _some_ loyal fans, thank goodness—those who denied that he’d actually murdered anyone, or who could easily see there was no _proof_ that he’d stolen anything, or who just didn’t care either way and only wanted his music. And that was nice, at least—he still retained _some_ of his _familia_.

But it wasn’t enough.

Those who now hated him far outweighed those who still supported him. It was a PR nightmare, trying to figure out what to do about that recording. At the very least, he’d been told, he’d never actually _admitted_ to the murder of Héctor or the knowing theft of his songs, but his attempted murder of that stupid child was a different matter. Right now they were trying to work on some solution to that—perhaps that he had been so overly-stressed from the event, from such serious accusations, and from the surreal experience of meeting a living child that he had temporarily lost control of his actions. A flimsy excuse, but… perhaps one that had some truth to it. He _had_ been stressed—that child was trying to ruin his entire career, his reputation—and when under stress, people may resort to… extreme measures.

Ernesto knew a lot about that sort of thing.

But even if they managed to convince the public that the decision had been made in a moment of extreme stress, all of that would still leave a bad taste in their mouths. Not many wanted anything to do with him anymore aside from shouting at him in the street or even trying to _attack_ him, at a few points. He couldn’t get near enough to any place to actually play music.

Unlike a certain _other_ musician.

Taking a deep gulp of coffee didn’t quite wash _that_ bitter taste out of his mouth. Héctor had been living the dream since then—the press was all over him and constantly wanting interviews, he had a growing fanbase, and he even had that little bonus of getting his _familia_ _estúpida_ back. Yet he wasn’t performing concerts, or even singing or playing a few choruses for his fans! A perfect waste of his talent—some things never changed. Or maybe they would—maybe Héctor _would_ start throwing concerts for his _beloved_ fans. Whatever the case, all eyes were on _him_ , now.

And that was where the hardest part had started.

Once again Ernesto swallowed down another mouthful of coffee, and rubbed his forehead against the oncoming headache. _Ay._ It wasn’t _supposed_ to be so hard. This wasn’t like when he’d made that fatal toast with Héctor, or even when he’d tried to get rid of that child. There was no murder here—not even an attempt. There were no fatally poisonous drinks, no bodies to hide, no friendships to permanently end. It should have been _easy_.

Tracking Héctor down had been easy. Finding out when he typically left the house, where he wasted his time—none of it was particularly difficult, with the media following him around anyway. They’d quickly found out about his visits to the shanties, and one of his men had mapped out the route he took. Then it was just a matter of finding the right spot, placing the fake order, and…

He pressed the heel of his hand into his head.

When he’d poisoned the drink, he hadn’t been entirely sure what would happen. Héctor could have dropped dead, or he could have gotten so sick that he couldn’t possibly board the train. Ernesto had been prepared for either case, but the former was what had happened. He’d done what he had to do, and that was that. The guilt had been there, but success and tequila had mostly chased it out—ultimately, it had been worth it. The nightmares had come, filled with the bitter taste of tequila, the smell of burning coal from the train, the feeling of dead weight in his arms.

But never with _those sounds_.

It was the one thing he’d failed to prepare for. He’d had the threats planned and ready to follow through with, his men had gathered the required tools, others were made aware of the situation, and they’d found the best location, but the sounds—why hadn’t he prepared for the _sounds_?!

He should have gagged him, if that were possible. He should have muted him first (but then there was that _rattling_ and _rasping_ and _gagging_ and—), or broken his ribs first ( _crack, crack, **crunch**_ ), or soundproofed the other room so he at least couldn’t hear what they were doing, or…

Every time he fell asleep they were _there_. Even when he was awake the noises were _there_ ; he’d hear the slightest scuffle or yelp that was just close enough and they would morph into those _sounds_ —

 _Ay_ , Héctor never made anything easy.

Ernesto’s hand trembled with a specific pain he’d never felt before last night, and he stood up straight, massaging his palm. That, at least, he knew how to deal with. He’d felt a near-constant nausea back when Héctor had first died,  but it left in time. Soon enough the pain in his hand would leave, too.

Just like Héctor’s fans would soon grow tired of waiting for their beloved musician to play for them. They’d miss those songs, eventually, and Héctor would never be there to perform them. They’d turn to other musicians, other bands, other mariachis, but it wouldn’t satisfy them. No.

Soon enough, they would come back to _him_ , and all of this suffering would be worth it.

“Yip! Yip!”

Ernesto looked down to see that the _alebrijes_ had finished their meal, and now Lobo was barking at him, both his little paws on his pant leg. Sighing, Ernesto reached down to pet the dog, only for him to duck away from his hand, darting off to another part of the apartment.

He had a feeling where the dog was leading him.

Rubbing the metacarpals on his right hand, he followed the dog through their little apartment. The other _alebrijes_ seemed to catch on to this and bolted after Lobo as well, Zita yapping all the way. And, sure enough, they stopped at the closet door, all of them pawing and jumping and barking and whining all at once.

“No, _no_ ,” Ernesto said, wincing. “I’ve told you, those bones are _not_ for you.”

That only seemed to make them bark louder, and he turned away quickly, heading back for the kitchen. That had been another oversight—of course the dogs would want _bones_. They could probably smell it from out here. Even if he wanted to dispose of the wretched thing right now, he wasn’t going to do it _that_ way and risk the poor dogs choking. He needed to call Luis and ask him to pick up some bone-shaped dog treats from the store, and perhaps then they’d quiet down until the week was up.

To his surprise, the moment he reached for the phone on his wall, it began ringing.

He jumped back, giving a cry of surprise, only to roll his eyes at his own skittishness. Honestly, he shouldn’t be so on edge right now. Taking a moment to prepare a fake accent if he needed to, he picked up the phone. “ _¿Hola?_ ”

“Señor de la Cruz, it’s Rafael,” came the voice on the other line, and Ernesto relaxed a fraction.

“ _Sí_. What is it? Did something happen?” He twirled the phone cord in his fingers absently, eyes flicking down when he felt Zita tugging at his pant leg.

“We, uh, got word from Heraldez.”

His hand clenched around the cords and he hissed a curse into the receiver. Immediately Zita yelped, scampering away. “Oh, _wonderful_. And what did that ‘investigation’ turn up?”

“Uh… well… that Rivera woman and some other relative—an _abuelo_ or something, I don’t know—of hers gave statements about finding you-know-who weeping in a doorway. They went to the spot, acted all thorough, and were gonna lead ‘em to say there was nothing there, but that _abuelo_ caught on to the cleanup.”

Ernesto gritted his teeth. “And?”

“And… well, Heraldez said that they’d need a statement from _him_.”

His chest tightened, as did his grip on the phone cord. “And what did he tell them?”

“Uh… he didn’t, last I heard.”

“Which was?”

“About ten minutes ago.”

Heaving a sigh, he felt the tension leave his ribcage. “Good,” he said, releasing the phone cord and letting it _thwap_ against the wall. “I’ll need one of you to come over here.”

“… _Sí_. Will I need to bring anything, _Señor_?”

Ernesto’s gaze drifted across his apartment, past the playing and yipping _alebrijes_ and over to the closet door. “Anything you think will be useful in serving as a _reminder_.”

“… _Sí_. Anything else?”

In a moment, the sounds filled his mind: _bang, bang, snap._

_Shriek._

“…A large wad of cotton, if you would.”

“ _Si_ , Señor de la Cruz. I’ll be there in half an hour.”


	13. The House on the Sand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Héctor hits his breaking point.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HELLO I AM BACK. And I'm leaving again shortly after this--I'm going to be on a weeklong vacation starting in a few days and I wanted to get this chapter posted first, so!
> 
> HUGE thank-you to Jaywings and PaperGardener for beta-reading this chapter for me. I seriously cannot thank you guys enough. 
> 
> As for this chapter... well. I'll let you see for yourself.

It wasn’t quite evening yet, but the late afternoon sun was beginning its slow descent on the other side of the house, keeping Héctor’s room peacefully dim. Well… as dim as it could get with a glowing, multicolored dog currently occupying it, anyway.

Dante was snoring softly next to Héctor, the _alebrije’s_ warm body snuggled up near the hollow of his middle. The warmth seeped into Héctor’s sore bones, granting some relief from the pain he was in.

 _Don’t suppose you can do anything about that police investigation though, eh,_ pelón _?_ he thought, scratching idly around the stray wisps of hair on the _alebrije’s_ head. In seeming response, the dog’s back leg began to scratch at the air, as though attempting to satisfy an itch it could not find. _Probably not._

Fighting the urge to sigh, Héctor re-settled himself into the pillows at his back, gazing out the window. He supposed it was inevitable that Imelda would go to the police—it’s what he would have done, too, had the same happened to her. He wasn’t sure just how Ernesto would know they had gone to the police, especially if Héctor wasn’t the one to go himself, but he hadn’t wanted to risk it. But now… Imelda…

Héctor loved her with all of his heart, but now she was making things so much more difficult by going to the police in the first place, and then telling them that _he_ would give a statement. It wasn’t enough to tell him that she didn’t want him lying to her, or hiding things from her—now she wanted him to talk to the police? He supposed he could lie to them (she hadn’t said anything about lying to _other people_ , after all), but that might cause trouble later.

…Not that he’d never gotten in trouble with the police before.

For a moment he almost laughed at the thought—what would they do if they found out, throw him in jail again? It would probably just be like routine. Hola _, Nestór. Yes, sorry, I know it’s not_ Dia de Muertos _but I can’t keep far away from trouble for too long, you know?_ _I think it would miss me._ He smiled at the mental image of the security officer rolling his eyes as he hauled him off to the same holding cell he’d been kept in every year or so. And then he’d get let back out, head back to Shantytown, and Cheech would probably grumble something about making him lose a bet, and—

Wait, wait wait, no. He couldn’t walk, couldn’t talk to the police anyway, Cheech wasn’t there anymore, and it wasn’t Shantytown he’d be returning to.

 _I can’t believe you would do this to yourself—lying to the police? Serving_ jail time _? What kind of criminal did I marry?! Why would you—_

A low whine at his side snapped him out of the thought, and he looked down at Dante again. But the dog was still asleep, possibly dreaming about something. Héctor scratched behind the dog’s ear. _I’d say to dream with_ los angelitos _, but you’d probably prefer to dream with the old shoes and turkey legs._

Well, there was no point in stressing about it now. He wasn’t giving the statement _yet_ , so the worry could wait until that happened. If it ever did—though Imelda probably wouldn’t let him off the hook with that one.

Besides… Ernesto really could have been bluffing about the police thing. By the time he found out the police were after him,  Ernesto would probably already be surrounded by officers. That was a nice thought: Ernesto actually being caught, safely away from his family. His goons would probably come right after that, and then maybe the police could find his hand, and that quack physician they’d called could come and fix it. And then his family would be safe, and he could play music again. Yes, that was a nice thing to think about.

Allowing himself a short sigh, he let his head tip back against the pillows, grimacing at the pain in his throat. That would go away, eventually. Maybe all the pain would.

Héctor shut his eyes as the weariness of the hectic night and day came over him, and drifted off to sleep.

Whether from the sheer exhaustion he felt or the presence of the _alebrije_ sleeping beside him (or some combination of the two), his sleep was, for once, sound. No unpleasant dreams ate at him, no pains gnawed at him. Not at first, anyway. Instead, his dream was full of music and color— _a cheering crowd before him, an old wooden stage beneath him, and a familiar figure in a red hoodie standing beside him, strumming a guitar and singing with all his heart. The exact song eluded him, lost in the fog of dreams, but he felt the energy of it, felt his feet dance beneath him of their own accord until the rest of his body joined along, separating and rearranging in the most ridiculous ways he could manage. The effort made him dizzy, but the happiness in his great-great-grandson’s face made it worth it. He could even hear the distant howl of that_ pelón _dog somewhere backstage, joining in with their song._

_Music. Energy. Family. Joy._

_But it could only last for so long._

_When he reached over to pick up Miguel, he felt it—a nagging, grinding pain in his right hand. He faltered, the music fading, and the crowd around him began to murmur while his grandson looked on in confusion._

_“Papá Héctor?”_

_He could feel the stares of the crowd around him, but he tried to laugh it off. “No, no, it’s oka—_ aaaaAH _!”_

_The pain intensified with a variety of faint, sharp jabs stabbing through the individual bones. Instinctively he went to grab his right hand with his left, only to grasp at air._

_“_ Héctor _!”_

_The stage lights began to darken and swim around him, and again he tried to clutch his hand, trying to determine what was wrong, but—_

_A fiery pain shot through one of his metacarpals, and with a strangled gasp he found himself staggering back, tripping off the stage, the hard cobblestones below rising up to meet him—_

Héctor awoke with the feeling of being dropped onto his bed, his ribcage giving a pained heave at the shock. Before he could process that he had just woken from a dream, he felt another intense pain fire through one of his carpals, too intense and real to be anything from the aftershocks of a nightmare or even the horrors of a flashback.

This wasn’t a dream. This was really happening.

Another pain ripped through several of his missing phalanges at once, and he kicked his legs and clenched his jaw against the scream that threatened to tear through his metaphorical throat. _Don’t yell, don’t yell—it hurts, it_ hurts _—yelling will make it hurt worse, don’t yell—_ por favor, basta _—_

A loud, insistent whine made its way into his awareness, and he felt something warm lean itself carefully against his body, soft enough not to hurt his ribs. Automatically he wrapped his arm around Dante’s neck and shoulders, clutching him as hard as he dared, but the _alebrije_ seemed unbothered by the gesture.

Another hot-and-cold pain tore through another one of his bones, and he clenched his jaw tighter, feeling like this teeth were going to shatter. He couldn’t stand it, why was this happening, why wouldn’t it _stop_ —?!

Faintly he was aware of Dante pulling away for a moment, only to return seconds later, holding something soft and nudging it against his jaw. He wasn’t sure what it was, but quickly bit into it, tasting cotton—one of the pillows on his bed, probably. He looped his arm around the _alebrije_ again, clinging to his sturdy frame for dear life at yet another intense, crushing pain in his absent bones. While the pain brought with it waves of nausea, he tried to divert his attention to the whimpering dog at his side, the warmth of his body, the slimy tongue that was now licking at his face (which was already wet with tears he hadn’t realized he’d been shedding).

After what felt like an age of lying there, clinging to the _alebrije_ and fighting to keep from screaming, the storm passed. His missing hand still hurt terribly, worse than it had before, and the sickness still churned in his non-existent stomach, but no new pains arose. In spite of his broken ribs, his chest heaved in deep breaths as he gingerly pulled the pillow out of his mouth. He was too dazed to wonder what had brought the attack on, only grateful that it was over.

Shakily he brought his hand up to Dante’s head, scratching him around the ears. _Gracias, Dante…_ he thought, wishing he could verbalize the praise. But Dante seemed to understand the gesture well enough, his tail thumping against the bed.

Héctor closed his eyes, willing the agonizing pain to fade to slightly more tolerable levels. As it did so, the fog in his mind began to clear up just enough to ask the right questions—namely, why this had just happened.

 _That was… like last night…_ he thought, gritting his teeth. _Were they… were they doing something again? Why?!_

 _I want nothing more to do with you,_ Ernesto had said. So why was this happening?

But then he remembered—the threat. Ernesto had threatened to go after his family if he dared speak, dared go to the police, but…

 _I didn’t say_ anything _!_ he wanted to snarl, overcome with a sudden fury. He found himself glaring up at the ceiling, as though he were looking up into Ernesto’s disgusting face. _I didn’t say a word, Ernesto! I’ve been quiet! You know I have!_

…Didn’t he?

Héctor mulled it over before his body stiffened in horror— _he_ had kept quiet, but _Imelda_ had gone to the police! Did Ernesto know about that? No, no, it wasn’t fair, he’d been keeping up his end of the deal, so Ernesto couldn’t go after them, he couldn’t!

But, then, that attack hadn’t been on his family—it had been on _him_. But why would Ernesto attack him again? Perhaps to rub it in, but no, that wasn’t like Ernesto. He never liked dirtying his hands if he felt he didn’t have to (when he was sober, anyway). So why would he…

It was a warning. It had to be. If Ernesto had found out about the investigation, but, somehow, had known Héctor himself hadn’t been involved, then he wouldn’t go after his family, not yet. It was a warning—a reminder.

Ernesto hadn’t been bluffing at all. Héctor didn’t know how that _cabrón_ did it, but somehow he was still keeping close tabs on them. He knew there was an investigation, and somehow, he would know if Héctor really _did_ say something to the police.

Which Imelda was still waiting for him to do.

Héctor went still as something terrible began to bubble up in his ribcage—anger, hot and boiling, burned within him, sending his bones rattling and his chest heaving. Shakily he grabbed the pillow he’d set aside earlier, and pressed it into his face. The pain in his ribs, in his throat—he ignored all of it as he drew in a useless breath, and let it out in an enraged, muffled _howl_.

Only days ago, he used to think back on that fateful _Dia de Muertos_ as the hardest night of his life, fighting against being forgotten for his last chance at seeing his daughter, and then, later, fighting even harder just to save his newfound great-great-grandson.

But now, all of that seemed so _simple_. It had been so simple, so straightforward—get his photo to Miguel, and send Miguel home. And by some miracle it had all happened, even after his photo had been lost—Miguel was home, and somehow, there was a photo waiting for him on the other side.

Now?

He didn’t know what he was even supposed to do now. He didn’t know what he _could_ do. Ernesto had taken his hand, threatened to harm his _familia_ if he dared speak about what had happened… It could have just ended there, and he could have kept quiet to keep everyone else safe, hard as it was. But now Imelda had brought the police into the picture, and she was expecting him to talk to them and tell the truth. If she couldn’t trust him to do that, then how was he ever supposed to be reconciled with Imelda and Coco and the rest of his family? But if he _did_ speak, if he _did_ tell the truth... then Ernesto would probably send someone out after his family and—

 _Dios_ , this would all be easier if he’d just been forgotten two months ago.

There was a plaintive whine near his ear.

Feeling something tugging at the pillow over his face, Héctor pulled it away, only for something cold and wet to nudge into his cheekbone. Wincing, he glanced over to see two mismatched pink and green eyes staring at him sadly. He wasn’t sure if Dante could read his thoughts or if the dog could just sense that something was amiss, and he let out a short sigh. _No, no._ Lo siento _. I don’t… I don’t really wish that. It’s just… I wish I knew what to do._ He turned away, staring out the window, at the evening sky that was slowly turning from pale blue to yellow. _I want to keep my family safe, but I don’t want to lose them, either._

Dante nudged at Héctor’s cheekbone again and licked his face.

Frowning, Héctor shoved the dog with his elbow to push him away. _Basta._ _I don’t need your drool all over me right now._

But as soon as he moved his arm away, the dog leaned in again, licking him across the face again and over his eye socket.

 _¡Guacala!_ Héctor grimaced, wiping the drool off of his face and scrubbing his eye socket with the back of his hand before shoving the dog again. _Stop that!_

However, the sad expression was now gone from Dante’s face, replaced with the sort of smile only a dog can have. He stood up on the bed, seeming enthralled by this new game, and leaned in to lick at Héctor’s face repeatedly.

 _No! No! Stop it!_ He pushed at Dante’s chest, but the _alebrije_ was persistent, his long blue tongue constantly whipping around, just barely able to reach Héctor’s face. _STOP!_ Ay, _if my voice worked now,_ pelón _, you’d be sorry!_ But, as it was, he couldn’t verbally berate the dog, who was apparently taking his silence to mean a lack of disapproval.

Finally though Dante did stop, sitting back down on the bed and looking very pleased with himself.

 _Stupid dog,_ Héctor thought, wiping the remaining drool from his face and glaring at the _alebrije_. It was a bit difficult to maintain the look, though, when Dante met his gaze with an exaggerated tilt of his head, his blue tongue flopping over the top of his muzzle. With a snort of laughter, Héctor reached out to scratch beneath the dog’s collar. _Yes, Dante, you’re a very dumb dog, but a good one. At least I know one person in this family won’t turn away from me when I screw this up, eh?_

If Dante was attuned to his thoughts at all, he didn’t seem to notice those ones, more preoccupied with leaning into Héctor’s hand until he tipped over, losing balance and falling off the bed. A quick glance over the edge of the bed confirmed that the dog was not bothered by this, and had fallen back asleep on the floor.

Rolling his eyes, Héctor re-adjusted himself on the pillows at his back. Yes, one _alebrije_ who would probably keep following him around the Land of the Dead when Imelda inevitably kicked him out—at least he had that. It was a very, very dumb _alebrije_ , but better than nothing. Dante would still accept him as family, while the others…

Well, Coco might still accept him. He knew there was still probably some hurt in her, buried deep down, and he couldn’t blame her for that, but she’d held onto his memory long enough to tell his story again—it was because of her he survived. Even if she was upset with him for lying… she wouldn’t turn him away, would she?

And… well, Rosita liked him too. She liked to _mother_ him, which was a bit odd, but she seemed to act that way to nearly everyone. On top of that, there was what she’d said earlier— _we’re all here for you._

He wasn’t sure how much he really believed that one. The twins, possibly. Julio, he wasn’t sure, and Victoria… no, not Victoria. Recalling the looks she would give him, he felt something cold in the space where his stomach would be, and shifted uncomfortably in his bed.

Then there was Pepita, who… he wasn’t sure about. She was interested in him, clearly, but he could never tell if she was trying to help him, if she was angry at him, or if she was just trying to mess with him. Probably the second one, given whose _alebrije_ she was.

Imelda…

 _I wish I could tell you,_ mi amor _,_ he thought miserably, shutting his eyes. _I wish I could tell you everything. But I don’t want anything to happen to you, or Coco, or the others…_ Lo siento. _What a mess I’ve gotten into._

Dante let out a quiet whine as his mouth split open in a yawn, breaking Héctor out of his introspection once again. The dog then stood up, shaking himself, and lazily trotted to the door, scratching at it. For a brief moment Héctor wondered if he needed to be let outside, but gave a start when he heard a voice from the other side:

“ _¿Hola?_ Señor Rivera, this is Doctor Mendoza. Is it all right if I come in?”

Héctor gave a start, his eyes immediately darting around the room to find some place he could escape to. Jumping out the window again was certainly a no, but he could probably crawl under the desk or the bed and pretend he wasn’t there or something, and then—

Dante continued to scratch at the door, whining.

“Señor Rivera?”

…No, he wasn’t going to run again. This wasn’t something he wanted to do, but he couldn’t keep running away from it, either. Best to just get it over with. Biting his lip, he pushed himself up on the bed, and struck the side of his foot against the wall twice.

There was a brief pause before the door cracked open. Dante barked excitedly, dancing around it, and the door opened all the way as the doctor stepped in.

The second Dr. Mendoza laid eyes on Héctor, he gave a brief start, and Héctor smiled sheepishly, waving at him with his only hand.

“Ah… _buenas tardes_ ,” the doctor said, hauling his briefcase into the room before shutting the door behind him. Dante barked at the man again, wagging his tail, and the doctor hesitantly scratched the dog’s head. “Is this your _alebrije_ here?”

Technically, no, but… if Dante didn’t bother the doctor, perhaps it wouldn’t be bad to have him in the room. He nodded.

“I see.” The doctor watched as Dante, who seemed contented with the head-scratching, walked up to the bedside and sat there. “I take it you’d like him to stay here?”

Héctor nodded again.

“Very well.”

When the man approached the bed, Héctor looked out the window, feeling uncomfortable. But before the doctor could say anything, he sat up straighter, remembering something, and opened his satchel to retrieve his notepad and pen. After flipping to a blank page, he scribbled: _I feel better than I look. You don’t have to do anything drastic._ The first part was a blatant lie, but he didn’t care, and showed the notepad to the doctor.

“…Señor Rivera,” the doctor said, looking from the notepad and back to his patient. “As I understand it, you died in the 1920s, correct?”

Héctor nodded, raising an eye ridge at the doctor. _What does that have to do with anything?_

“You do realize medical science has improved significantly since then, and we don’t typically have doctors who foolishly kill their patients. Not to mention, we can’t exactly kill anyone here in the first place.”

Héctor paused at that, biting his lower lip. Ah. Well. He should have probably figured that first part, but it wasn’t exactly like he’d had any way of knowing when he hadn’t seen a doctor since he was alive. Plus, living in the shanties for so long meant he didn’t typically have access to a doctor and had to do without.

“I’m not going to propose any wild solutions. I’ll just be seeing what I can do to treat your injured bones. And…” He trailed off for a moment, and Héctor got the feeling he was probably looking at where his right hand should have been. “We’ll have other things to discuss later.”

Shifting uneasily where he sat, Héctor pointedly looked away while the doctor began examining his broken bones. He started with his tibia—one of the more obvious breaks. He could still remember when it had been broken (a bridge-crossing stunt involving fireworks that had gone particularly badly), when he’d tried and failed to set the break himself, and had to be practically carried back to Shantytown to have it taken care of there as best as they could. Not a particularly fond memory, but at least better than thinking about where his more recent ones came from.

…That said, he would rather not think of _any_ of this at the moment. He would rather not be around a doctor at all, but it was a bit late for that.

Dante gave a quiet _ruff_ , lying his head on the mattress beside Héctor, who gladly began to scratch behind the dog’s ears. The _alebrije_ was a welcome distraction as the doctor got to work removing the ancient tape from his old breaks and putting proper casts on them. As he worked, Dr. Mendoza talked about the casts and other things, which Héctor nodded along to without really listening, keeping his focus on the dog that was now rolling about on the floor next to his bed.

“…why you’re not talking. Señor Rivera? Did you hear me?”

Héctor snapped his head up to look at Dr. Mendoza, and immediately went to rub his neck.

“So it _is_ your neck.” The doctor stepped up closer to Héctor’s head, Dante shuffling out of the way, and stooped down to get a closer look. “Look up at the ceiling, please.”

Grimacing, Héctor obeyed, tipping his head up and ignoring the pain the action caused his vertebrae. This, however, was evidently not enough for the doctor to get a better look at them, and Héctor froze up when his scarf was gently tugged off and a firm hand pulled his jaw upward.

 _“L-let me go,_ basta _! Let go—”_

_“Quit squirming unless you want another rib broken.”_

_Something metal clinked in the hands of one of the guards, and he felt another fresh wave of panic surge through his broken ribcage. “N-no, no, not again, not—”_

“Señor Rivera?”

Héctor blinked, suddenly back in his room. His chest was heaving painfully, and the doctor had taken a step back. Dante, meanwhile, had his front paws up on the bed, leaning forward to lick his hand.

Realizing that the doctor was waiting for him to respond, he quickly raised his good arm, waving his hand in a dismissive manner. _Fine, don’t worry about it, don’t ask about it, it’s fine, I’m fine…_

“You’re certain you’re all right? I could ask your wife to come in here, if that would help.”

Part of him almost said yes—having Imelda come in and speak to him, or hold his hand, or even just be in the room with him would help a great deal—but he quickly shut that thought down. No, _no_ , that was a bad idea. If she came in, she may find out that he ran away from the doctor before, or she may start asking questions or talking to the doctor about what happened (if no one else had already told him). Shaking his head, he waved his hand dismissively again. _I’m fine, get on with it already._

The doctor didn’t look particularly convinced, but went on: “Very well… You have a number of deep cuts at the front of your cervical vertebrae, which is obviously why you’re unable to talk at the moment. Unfortunately there’s little I can do other than to put a bandage around your vertebrae in order to protect them as the cuts heal. There’s nothing that can aid the healing process other than memories in the Land of the Living, but unless you’re quite famous in the living world, it will take a month or more to heal.”

Well, that was better than it used to be, anyway—not long ago, when his bones had been yellow, they didn’t heal at _all_ , and constant pain had been the norm. Ever since Coco had fully remembered him, they’d slowly begun to heal. As irritating as it was being unable to talk, he could deal with it, knowing it wasn’t permanent.

Already the doctor was grabbing a roll of soft bandages and pulling a strip of them. “Look up at the ceiling again, please.”

 _No,_ gracias _. Not_ that _again._ Frowning, Héctor grasped his own jaw, gently lifting his head from his shoulders and setting it beside him. Hearing Dante’s bewildered whine and seeing the stunned look on the doctor’s face, he couldn’t help but grin a little.

“…Ah. I… suppose that works, too.”

Even without his head needing to be forced back, feeling someone’s hands at his neck was not a pleasant experience, and was again threatening to dredge up things he’d rather forget. Fortunately Dante was keeping up his job of distracting him, this time by licking his face (which was now within easier reach) repeatedly and fighting off his attempts at shoving him away. As soon as the doctor finished, he replaced his head, letting out a short sigh of relief.

“Careful not to loosen the bandages. So long as you don’t disconnect your cervical vertebrae as you did your _cabeza_ , the bandages should keep them from getting dirt trapped in them as they heal.”

He gave a short nod, frowning at the odd feeling of the material completely surrounding his neck.

“Your ribs I can unfortunately do little to treat. Due to the way they move and how sensitive they are, putting a cast or bandage on them may prove excruciatingly painful, which I’m sure you don’t want. But they _will_ heal on their own, given time.”

Oh, the doctor didn’t need to tell him _that_. Back when he’d first broken one of his lowermost ribs, he’d tried to bandage it with duct tape himself, and very quickly discovered just _why_ that was not done. He’d dealt with two broken ribs over the years, though—what were two more? (…A lot, not to mention the ones that had smaller cracks in them. But he’d deal with it anyway.)

“Now… Señor Rivera.”

Héctor looked up, noting that the doctor had stepped away for a moment to pull his desk chair over to the bed, and was now sitting on it. That wasn’t a good sign, but then, he’d already put casts on his arm and leg, and gone over his ribs and neck. That left one thing, and Héctor already knew what was to be said about that: _I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do about your missing hand. By the way, how did that happen? How did you break so many bones and injure your neck like that? Why—_

“I’ve noticed that one of your ribs is missing.”

_…¿Qué?_

“It seems to be an old injury. Do you remember when that happened?”

Héctor blinked. That… hadn’t been what he’d expected, but at least it wasn’t a question he particularly minded answering. Bemused, he retrieved his notepad and pen, quickly scratching out an explanation: _Got caught on something when running. Didn’t notice it was gone until later._ He left out the detail that he’d been running from the police—the doctor didn’t need to know that much.

Dr. Mendoza nodded gravely. “When did you notice it was gone?”

It was such a long time ago—fifty years, at the very least—he honestly wasn’t sure. _Week later?_ he wrote, shrugging. Now that he thought of it, he had only noticed that it was gone when he realized that his ribcage wasn’t in quite as much pain as it had been for the past several days, and had glanced down to see what had happened. But rather than seeing his rib miraculously healing, it had been gone entirely.

Hearing a deep sigh, he looked back up at the doctor, who was rubbing his hand over his face. “We can detach our bones with no harm to them, but they were never meant to be left detached for long.”

Héctor gave a short nod. That made sense. He remembered trying to call his rib back when he’d realized it was missing, and being surprised when nothing had happened. It was a little worrying, but he’d written it off as just the price he’d have to pay for trying to sneak across the bridge. It was only a rib, anyw—

He sat bolt upright, looking down at where his right hand should have been.

“Your family told me earlier that your hand has been missing since last night. Is that correct?”

He couldn’t breathe. His chest had seized up, and he couldn’t look away from his wrist.

“…Señor Rivera, can you hear me?”

A week—his rib had been lost for a week before he couldn’t feel it anymore, before he couldn’t call it back. His hand had been gone for nearly a day.

“Héctor?”

Feeling the touch of a hand on his shoulder, he gave a start and looked back at the doctor, who stared back at him seriously, but not without compassion.

“If you cannot retrieve your hand within a week of losing it, you will lose it for good.”

He’d known that Ernesto wouldn’t give his hand back—unless he had some miraculous change of heart, there was no way that man would return it to him. But… it hadn’t seemed _final_. Even if he’d known that it would never happen, some distant part of him had still held onto the hope that he would somehow get his hand back—that he would somehow be able to play music again. But to hear the confirmation that in a few short days, he would lose his hand for good…

Gently he drew his right arm closer to himself, tucking his wrist under his vest and wrapping his other arm around his chest. He stared down at the bed before him, not really seeing anything.

“Are you able to call it back?”

He shook his head.

“Could you tell me what happened to it?”

An involuntary shudder rattled his bones, and he shook his head again, still staring blankly downward. Some part of him was panicking, horrified at where the questions would lead, but it felt oddly distant.

“Is there _any_ information you can give me?”

He shook his head, vaguely aware that there was a tightness building in his ribcage and throat.

There was a long pause before the doctor heaved another sigh. “Memory and proper treatment can heal broken bones, but neither can replace missing ones. There is nothing to be done, other than pray that your hand is recovered soon.”

Off to the side of the bed, Dante gave a whimper.

“…I am sorry, Señor Rivera.”

Héctor wasn’t entirely sure what happened after that; he didn’t hear the doctor ask him anything more, and the shock overwhelmed his senses, numbing him to the world.

 

* * *

 

 

The doctor had stepped out of the Rivera _hacienda_ , leaving a dense cloud of tension behind him. It was dead silent in the house—no one dared move or speak, and Imelda knew why.

 _They_ knew. They _had known_.

She’d figured something had been up—Héctor had immediately begun acting suspicious when she and Julio had come home. There had been too much going on to sweat over the minor details, however—or what she had thought had been minor details. She’d needed to talk to Héctor about the police investigation and the statement he would give—she could worry about what he’d been sneaking around downstairs for some other time.

Later, the doctor had come in. _Hello again_ , he’d said, and she’d written off the “again” as him referring to the earlier phone call.

But then he’d come back down after the examination, and—

 _I’m sure your_ familia _has already told you about what I said at my first visit today._

They hadn’t.

Imelda still had her back to them, glaring out the window and into the yard as her family hung behind her. Fury burned within her ribcage as she gripped the windowsill, jaw clenched, shoulders tense.

For a long moment, she wasn’t sure if she was angrier at whatever low-life criminal did this to Héctor, at the police who seemed to be dragging their heels over this investigation, at that _músico idiota_ who was hesitating to give a simple statement and apparently _running away_ from the doctor, or at her family who somehow thought they were doing the right thing by _hiding things from her._

They were all quiet, afraid of what she would do if they dared speak up. She wasn’t entirely sure, either.

Finally the floorboards creaked as one of them took a hesitant step forward. “I-Imelda—”

She whipped around, half the family flinching back as she stormed past them and up the stairs. Halfway up the first flight she stopped, slowly turning back to glare down at them. She could tell who the culprits were, with her brothers standing shoulder-to-shoulder, Rosita wringing her hands, and Coco gripping her arm.

When she finally spoke, her voice was low and dangerous. “You all knew about this and you didn’t say _one word_ to me?”

Rosita fidgeted. “W-well… we didn’t want _pobrecito_ Héctor to get in trouble—”

“So you _lie_ to me?” Imelda interrupted. “And you don’t tell me something as vital as—?!” She cut herself off; she didn’t want to repeat it, the very thought sending even more anger surging through her, followed by a wave of even nastier emotions. For a moment she shut her eyes, trying to force her emotions aside so she could speak more calmly, and faced her family again. “I do not want any of you hiding _anything_ else from me. _Está claro_?”

“ _S-sí,_ _hermana_ ,” Felipe said, hanging his head.

“ _Claro_ ,” Oscar confirmed.

With a nod, Imelda turned again to continue marching up the stairs. She might talk with them more later—for now, she had someone _else_ she needed to deal with.

Just thinking about it sent her fuming—after she’d spent half the day with the police and trying her hardest to help him, he’d tried to run away. _Again_. She’d hoped that perhaps his days of running off were over, but evidently not. Not to mention his absurd reluctance over something as basic as a statement. It was like he was dodging their every attempt at helping him. Did he not care about them? Did he truly not care about how hard they’d been working to take care of him and find his attacker and—?!

Part of her wanted to barge into his room and crack the heel of her boot over his skull. Imelda reached the third floor and immediately stormed down the hall to the guest bedroom door, which was slightly ajar. She yanked it open, ready to shout.

The shout died on her lips when she saw Héctor sitting hunched over on his bed, arms wrapped tightly around his chest, his right arm tucked under his vest, and staring blankly at the quilt in front of him. From the middle of the room, Dante gazed at her sadly with his big, mismatched eyes, and gave a helpless whine.

“…Héctor?” Her voice was far too quiet for something that had been nearly ready to scream only seconds ago. All of the things she wanted to shout at him about suddenly seemed insignificant.

If Héctor heard her at all, he didn’t acknowledge it, continuing to stare into nothing.

“Héctor _, ¿etas bien?_ ” she asked, already knowing the answer she was likely to receive.

Except none came.

Slowly she crept closer to the bed, but he still did nothing to acknowledge her presence. Dante was standing now, head cocked to one side as he watched her. Somehow his expression seemed to read, “go on.” Imelda looked from the _alebrije_ and back to Héctor, finally reaching out and placing a hand on his back.

The reaction was instantaneous: Héctor’s spine straightened as he gave a strangled gasp, and a few seconds later, he crumpled in on himself, his body racked by harsh sobs that seemed to rattle and tear through his shredded throat.

Horrified, Imelda pulled back for a moment, her hand to her mouth. She’d been so furious about her family’s hiding things from her that she hadn’t stopped to consider how the news would impact Héctor.

Memories rose to her mind of two months ago, when she had been shouting at him while they stood on the rooftop. Even when presented with the truth about her husband’s disappearance, her own anger had been at the forefront of her mind… up until she saw him collapse, a golden light flickering over his bones.

The golden light wasn’t there anymore, but he was still falling apart before her now.

She still needed to speak with him about everything else, but that could wait. For now, she slowly sank down onto the bed next to him, hesitating a moment before wrapping her arms around his shuddering frame. He flinched back at the first touch, almost afraid, and she caught him glancing back at her before turning away in shame.

“It’s okay,” she murmured, closing her eyes against the growing sorrow in her chest. He stayed tense in her arms, and she could feel the shudders and held-back sobs, but then he began to relax when she ran a hand through his hair. Finally he leaned in against her, tucking his face against her shoulder, allowing himself to be held as he cried. The trembling of his bones was so terrible, she nearly felt he would fall apart if she let go. It was so similar to the previous night, it was almost alarming. But something was different.

It had been a shocking, almost horrifying sight to see her husband like that. While she’d caught glimpses of tears when she’d turned him away earlier in her death, they were nothing like that moment in the alley. But even for as hard as he’d cried, he’d sounded _relieved_ then. Relieved, apparently, that he’d survived to see his family again, Coco had told her.

But this wasn’t relief; his cries had a broken quality to them, like a badly-maintained wall that had finally crumbled.

“ _Tranquilo_ ,” she whispered, hating the way her voice wavered. She ignored the sudden sharp pain in her throat and chest as she rubbed over his back. “ _Shh. Cálmate, cálmate._ We’ll get through this _._ I won’t let you lose your hand.”

Héctor leaned his body into hers, his head against her chest as his sobs intermixed with ragged coughing and gagging. The noises were sickening, but Imelda did not flinch away, instead resting her head against his.

“It’s okay, Héctor,” she said, blinking against her own tears. “I’m here, _mi amor_.”


	14. Caught

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Héctor and Imelda have a talk, Julio does not understand _alebrijes_ , and Victoria is more than a little conflicted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HI this took way longer than it was supposed to but HERE IT IS!! Thanks to Jaywings and PaperGardener for beta-reading for me!
> 
> We've got some big things happening this chapter, so I won't delay you any further. Have fun!

Héctor kept his eyes shut for a long while, not quite ready to face the world again just yet. An exhausting soreness had taken hold of his rib cage as it heaved in shallow, winded gasps that he was too tired to hold back. Occasionally it constricted in a sharp gasp as the pain from the broken ends of the ribs scraping against each other became overwhelming. His throat hurt like nothing else, as though it had been sliced up all over again. On top of all that, his body just ached in general—a mixture of lying mostly immobile for so long, and that poor landing after jumping out the window earlier. And his hand… well, that hadn’t really changed.

And what had crying done to help any of that? Nothing, clearly, only making him feel disgusting and exhausted. _Ay, stupid…_

He would almost say he felt worse than he had when they’d dumped him out into the alley last night.

Except there was one difference: he wasn’t alone.

Imelda was still holding him—an incredible thought, and one he clung to even more tightly than he clung to her. Her arms, strong with the years of providing for and protecting her family, were wrapped around him, one of her hands rubbing careful circles along his shoulder blades and spine, avoiding his rib cage. Occasionally her hand would reach up to brush through his hair, somehow managing to find a new snag to fix every time. While his head was pressed into her chest, her own head was resting atop his. And at some point during the mess, he’d managed to wrap his good arm around her back, pulling her even closer to him.

It was the closest they’d been in months, and as miserable as he felt, for that one comfort he wanted to make this moment last as long as possible. Eventually it would end, and he would need to go back to whatever cruelties the universe felt like unleashing on him. But for now, he remained in her arms, focusing on nothing but the fact that she was with him.

But it would have to end eventually. Héctor felt Imelda lift her head, and heaved a short sigh, knowing it was over.

“Héctor,” she said quietly, her voice sounding rough. (Had she been…?) Leaning away, she kept a hand on his back and another on his shoulder, as though to keep him steady. “ _¿Estás bien?_ ”

All he could do was blink at her wearily.

The corner of her lip quirked in a humorless smile. “That was a bad question,” she admitted, adjusting herself so she was sitting with her feet hanging off the edge of the bed. “Are you at least feeling a little better now?”

Héctor tried to smile, but it was weak at best. _Dios_ , he was tired. Still, he looked at her and mouthed the words: _un poco_.

“Good enough.” Giving his shoulder one final squeeze, her hand pulled away, and he missed the touch already. But her other hand remained on his back, and he tried to focus on that, even when she went quiet for a moment. “…You may have felt better if you hadn’t thrown yourself out the window.”

Guilt tugged beneath his ribs, leaving a jagged pain in his chest. Of course, there was no way she would let him escape this one. Knowing she was right, he gave a defeated nod, hanging his head.

“There’s nothing to be done for it now, but I do _not_ want it happening again.”

Well, she didn’t have to tell him twice. He hadn’t been planning on it, anyway, what with how little good it had done in the long run. He hadn’t escaped the doctor’s visit, and… well, now he had Imelda upset with him. No one to blame but himself for that.

Remembering that Imelda had been waiting for him to acknowledge her, he nodded, and caught her giving a short nod of confirmation back. But clearly this wasn’t all she’d come to talk to him about, and he could only imagine what other criticisms she was going to level at him. (None he didn’t deserve, of course.)

“Héctor,” she said, and went quiet again. He knew what she was waiting for, and mentally braced himself as he turned to look her in the eye. To his surprise, she didn’t seem angry—or not nearly as angry as he expected, anyway, as she looked at him seriously. “You know I’m on your side, _sí_?”

Héctor blinked. … _¿Qué?_

“I’m not here to fight with you. I’m not here to antagonize you.” Imelda turned away, staring down at the floor where Dante lay, lazily watching his own tail swish back and forth. “I… I know that’s how it used to be.” For a moment she shut her eyes, her mouth stretched into a thin line. “I suppose it’s… what you’re used to.”

Frowning, he turned his gaze down to the floorboards. Part of him wanted desperately to reassure her that he was fine, that she had done nothing wrong, and truthfully the only reason he did not immediately say it was that he physically could not. The other part of him knew that… well, she wasn’t wrong.

Only a few short months ago, if he dared to get anywhere near her, she’d gaze at him with contempt, at best. More often she would shout at him and brandish her shoe to drive him off, and a few times, she had even…

His hand moved to rub the cast on his bad arm.

She’d lived an entire lifetime without him, not knowing that the only reason he hadn’t come home was that his life had been forcibly cut short. From her perspective, he’d abandoned her (and… he had, honestly, at least in the beginning), and he deserved all of the anger and hurt she flung at him. He couldn’t fully blame her for it.

But that didn’t stop it from hurting, from tearing at his soul, from feeling like his world had shattered around him. That didn’t stop him from trying to reconnect, again and again, and didn’t stop the violent rejections opening the wounds afresh every time.

Yes, he’d become used to her hating him. It wasn’t something he liked to admit, but it was true.

“…I shouldn’t have attacked you.”

The words were so quiet that he didn’t register them at first. When he did, he snapped his head over to look at her, fast enough that his neck ached sharply. Her eyes were open again, now staring down at her feet. He followed her gaze, staring at her boots—probably not one of the pairs she’d used on him many years ago, but similar enough in appearance. Only vaguely could he remember them cracking against his bones—they weren’t memories he liked to dwell on.

Feeling her hand leave his back, he let out a short sigh, only to gasp when he felt a light touch against the cast on his arm.

“I’m sorry, Hector.”

He almost couldn’t believe what he was hearing, and half-wondered if she was even serious. But when he slowly turned to look at her, he flinched to see her staring right into his eyes.

“That is _not_ something that will happen again,” Imelda said, in the same tone of voice she would use when commanding him or anyone else in her family. “Do you understand?”

Something in Héctor’s rib cage tightened as he nodded slowly.

“You are _not_ off the hook for what you’ve done,” she went on, “but I’m still on your side. Don’t expect me to try to run you off, and don’t take that initiative yourself.”

He nodded again, turning away. That wasn’t entirely why he’d run off, but…

Imelda’s hand touched his face, guiding it back so he was looking at her again. “You can trust me, Héctor.”

The tightness in his chest was now a sharp pain that threatened to release itself in the form of tears. _Ay_ , was she trying to make him cry again?

She stared into his eyes, and he could see the determination burning in her own. “You are going to cooperate with us, and we _will_ find your hand again.”

Now he felt himself wilting. Yes, he could trust her… he could trust her to charge straight into whatever trap Ernesto was planning if she ever found out.

_If only you knew,_ mi amor.

Her thumb brushed under his eye socket, wiping at the tear stains. “Enough. It’s been a long day, and you need to rest. Tomorrow morning you can give your statement, and we’ll make sure whoever hurt you is caught.”

Allowing himself a short sigh, Héctor leaned into Imelda’s touch until she pulled her hand away.

“I’ll have someone bring you up some dinner. Until then, rest, Héctor.” And with that, she finally stood to walk out the door.

Dante watched her go before turning back to Héctor. The alebrije trotted up to the bed and put his front paws on the mattress, leaning forward to give his hand a gentle lick. That accomplished, he turned around, slipped through the gap in the door, and bolted downstairs after Imelda, leaving Héctor alone.

Watching his only company leave, Héctor carefully eased himself back into a slouching position over his pillows. He truly did feel exhausted, and felt no better about the prospect of having to give a statement tomorrow. But…

_Don’t expect me to run you off, and don’t take that initiative yourself._

…at least he knew Imelda really wouldn’t throw him out.

Maybe.

 

* * *

 

 

Dinner time was quiet, but not for the same reasons as when the doctor stepped out of the house. It was clear to see that Imelda’s anger had drained for now, so no one was (potentially) in danger of getting in trouble. However, from the way she had trudged down the stairs and from the slight wilting of her frame, everyone could tell that it wouldn’t be wise to ask what had gone on between her and Héctor. The day had been far too long, and everyone was approaching their limits, if they hadn’t hit them already.

Julio was certainly nearing his. He’d spent the past half hour or more comforting Coco, who had been distraught at the idea that her father might lose his hand. Neither of them were at their best with the emotional strain of the day on top of what little sleep they had gotten, but a quiet, calm dinner should have sorted things out.

Except Coco wasn’t with him—as soon as Rosita and Victoria had brought the food in from the kitchen, Coco had excused herself to bring a couple plates upstairs. Spending time with her father would probably help her, at least… but as for Julio, he felt like his bones would scatter at the slightest provocation.

Luckily Rosita was the only one who questioned his uneasy demeanor, and he quickly brushed her off with a remark about how long their day had been. She agreed, and no one else spoke up about it.

Even so, Julio found himself stealing glances at Mamá Imelda every so often, feeling his metaphorical heart jump into his throat whenever he thought she might be looking at him. But she never really did—at most, she seemed to glance tiredly around the table before going back to her food, but even that was enough to make him nearly panic.

Coco, Rosita, and the twins weren’t the only ones who had neglected to bring something up to her.

Julio still hadn’t told her about his own suspicions. The investigation had seemed like a bad time to bring it up—the police hadn’t been getting along with Imelda at all, and hearing that her husband may be lying about important details wouldn’t help matters any. He’d meant to say something on the flight home, but Pepita had disappeared shortly before the investigation had ended. They’d spent several minutes searching for her before she returned, very insistent on carrying them home, and her urgency had left them tense, wondering what on earth they needed to get home so quickly for. After that, Imelda had gone on to talk with Héctor and had left his room frustrated, so bringing up his suspicions then sounded absolutely disastrous. Then the doctor had come, and…

_I do not want any of you hiding anything else from me. ¿Está claro?_

Yes, that was clear. It was clear that she was going to feed him to Pepita when he finally said something.

_Ay_ , he wished Coco were here. But telling her would be a terrible idea too—she could get defensive when it came to her papá, something Julio knew firsthand. Coco was already upset, and bringing up that old argument again—that her father had, perhaps, not been truthful about everything—was not something he was willing to do.

So then… what was he going to do?

“I think,” Imelda began, and Julio couldn’t prevent himself from ducking into his rib cage. “I think we should all try to get as much sleep as we can. Tomorrow morning Héctor will give his statement to the police, and we’ll have a better idea of what happened and what we can do to… speed up the investigation.” She cast a sidelong glance toward the front door, and the general direction of the place the police had been investigating, before looking back at her family with renewed resolve. “We’ll need everyone’s help to make sure Héctor gets his hand back. He will not lose it for good.”

At her words, the mood of nearly the entire room seemed to lift. The twins and Rosita all gave determined nods with a few words of affirmation, and Dante, somewhere under the table, gave a pleased _bark_. Victoria merely nodded, seeming determined, but not as emotionally invested as the others.

Julio was pretty sure he was the only one who now felt _worse_. Héctor would give his statement tomorrow morning? No, no, that was bad—if he did that, then he was likely going to wind up lying to the police, which would _more_ than hinder the investigation, which would mean...

His mind conjured up all manner of terrible things that could happen, ranging from the police accusing Mamá Imelda again, to Héctor losing his hand permanently, to Coco being completely inconsolable, to Mamá Imelda somehow finding out that he had known that Héctor had been lying but hadn’t said anything, and, and…!

_Ay_ , this was horrible. If he weren’t already dead, he’d think this would probably be the death of him.

By the time he was done with dinner, Imelda was already taking her leave and the twins were starting to collect the plates. Julio almost wished it was his turn to wash the dishes, if only to have an excuse to avoid the others for a while and think this through. As it was, though, he watched Victoria stride into the living room and found himself following her.

Victoria paused by the stairs, glancing to the upper floors of the house, and Julio caught the worried look on her face. “Your mamá will be all right, _mija_ ,” he said, stepping up to her side as she glanced down at him. “She just needs a moment with Héctor. She’ll come down when she’s ready.”

“Assuming Héctor doesn’t spend the night treating her like a child,” she grumbled, and continued into the living room. She sat on the couch and snatched a book from the coffee table, and Julio took a seat next to her.

He had to agree, honestly, that it was a little strange to see Héctor treating Coco like a young girl so often. But as he understood it, Héctor had died fairly young and didn’t get the chance to see his daughter grow up. (And while being murdered wasn’t exactly his fault… part of it _was_ due to his own irresponsibility as a father and husband—something that Julio still found himself thinking about bitterly.) Still, he watched Victoria, trying to imagine himself or Coco babying her, and shook off the mental image. Victoria would have hated it, but at least Coco didn’t seem to mind.

As he sat in silence with his daughter, waiting for Coco to come back downstairs, Julio mulled over the information he had figured out. While he wasn’t so sure about the other details, Héctor had, without question, lied about not knowing the identity of his attacker. But the question was… why? He wouldn’t try to hide the identity of the attacker if it was some random stranger. Was it anyone _they_ knew? Someone Héctor knew but didn’t want to get in trouble? Could it be…?

Julio shuddered at the thought. No, there was no point in speculating like this—he had to know for sure. Someone had to confront Héctor over it.

“ _…Mija_ ,” he found himself starting.

Victoria marked her place in the book with her thumb and glanced over at him. “Hmm?”

“D-did anyone of note come into the store? While you worked today?” he ventured, fiddling with the rim of his hat.

“No, no one other than that one lady who never stops talking,” she said with a roll of her eyes. “I did keep an eye out for anything out of the ordinary, but didn’t see anything. Not that he’s given us much to go off of.”

Julio grimaced. Yes, Héctor should have at least given some description, and the fact that he didn’t made him all the more suspicious. Something was going on, and something was—

_Creak, creak._

Immediately Victoria looked up and Julio hopped to his feet at the sound of footsteps down the stairs. He hurried into the foyer, and sure enough, Coco was carrying two plates over to the kitchen. One plate looked liked it had barely been touched, and given the slight scowl on Coco’s face, he didn’t have to guess whose plate that was. He hurried into the kitchen after her, taking her hand once she’d set the plates down. “How did it go, Coco?”

She squeezed his hand, sighing. “Papá’s not taking it well, not that I blame him,” she said, leaning her head on Julio’s shoulder. “He’s been patched up now, at least. But he’d do better if he ate something.”

“To be fair… none of us _have_ to eat, _mi amor_.” He managed a slight laugh, and Coco laughed quietly with him.

“That’s easy to forget,” Coco admitted. “It would help, though.”

“How are you feeling, Mamá?” came Victoria’s voice. The two turned around to see her standing in the entrance to the kitchen, leaning against the wall. Though she hid it well, the both of them knew their daughter well enough to know she was concerned.

“I’ll be fine, _mija_.” Coco approached Victoria and placed a hand on her shoulder. “It’s all been a lot to take in, but we’ll get through this.”

In spite of how confident his wife sounded, however, Julio didn’t miss the way her frame drooped wearily, even more pronounced with her stooped back. “Mamá Imelda suggested that we all get some rest tonight,” he said, as Coco looked back at him. “It’s been a long day, and it looks like tomorrow may be longer.”

For a moment he worried that she might protest, but instead she heaved a sigh, nodding. “I suppose so… Some sleep might do us some good.”

“Perhaps for you two,” Victoria said. “I wasn’t up half the night, so I’ll be up a little longer. Besides…” She cast a sidelong glance at the dog that was now chasing its tail in the foyer. “…someone has to keep an eye on that stupid _perro_.”

“I’m sure Dante will be fine on his own,” Coco said with a half-smile. “He was a street dog. He knows how to take care of himself.”

Shrugging, Victoria turned back to her parents. “ _Buenas noches,_ ” she said with genuine tenderness in her voice. “I hope you sleep better than last night.” With that, she returned to the living room, Dante watching before trotting after her.

“I hope so, too,” Julio said, scratching his skull beneath his hat. He could feel the exhaustion and stress of the day wearing on him, and Coco surely didn’t feel much better. Squeezing his wife’s hand, he led her up the stairs and up to their room. As they walked, he recalled what Imelda had said earlier. “Héctor will be giving his statement to the police tomorrow morning.”

“He’s not happy about it, but it’s for the best.” Coco yawned and rubbed at her eye socket. “Something will need to be done, or…” She faltered, and Julio squeezed her hand again.

“It’ll be all right, _mi amor_.”

 

* * *

 

 

Maybe it would be all right, but right now it certainly wasn’t.

In spite of everything, Coco had quickly fallen asleep, but Julio had not. He was exhausted, sure, but the stress of the situation was still overwhelming. Every time he started to drift off, he remembered what was to happen the next morning and that he hadn’t told anyone what he’d found, and sleep would immediately flee from him. He found himself tossing and turning, avoiding waking his wife up by some miracle, but nothing felt comfortable.

_Ay,_ none of this was helping.

Sitting up, Julio took one cautious glance back at Coco before sliding out of bed. Maybe he just needed a walk to clear his head, or to wear him out enough to sleep. Or he could at least stay up and talk to Victoria, if nothing else—it was better than fighting a losing battle against insomnia.

He sneaked out of the room, careful to keep the door from creaking. The house was mostly dark now, save for the lamp that Victoria had lit somewhere downstairs, but it was just a short walk down the hall and to the stairs. However, the moment he reached the second flight of stairs, he gave a start at the sight of a glowing neon creature staring up at him. Automatically he clutched his hand to his chest as he felt his phantom heart nearly jump through his throat, but chided himself—it was only that _alebrije_.

Dante whined, tilting his head, and trotted the rest of the way up the stairs to him. Once he reached the landing, he looked back at Julio, staring at him with an unreadable expression… or perhaps Julio was just very bad at reading animals.

“Uh… _hola_?” he said, reaching out tentatively.

Dante glanced from Julio’s face to his outstretched hand before licking the hand. And then decisively wrapping his entire glowing tongue around it.

“ _AH!_ ” Julio cried, pulling back, but Dante’s tongue held firm. Remembering that nearly everyone was asleep now, he whispered harshly, “L-let—let go, _alebrije_! _¡Basta!_ Let go!”

But Dante was already turning around, tugging Julio along with him as he padded over to the set of stairs Julio had just come down, and back up to the third floor of the house. Technically Julio could detach his hand to get away, but he sometimes had trouble pulling himself back together. And after what had just happened with Héctor, he wasn’t keen on the possibility of losing a limb, either.

“N-no, Dante, bad dog! S-stop!” he hissed, but the dog still paid no mind. At first he wondered if the _alebrije_ might be taking him back to his own room, but that didn’t seem to be the case as they passed Mamá Imelda’s door. Julio winced, but heard nothing from inside the room, so hopefully Imelda wouldn’t know about… whatever was going on. He still had no idea what Dante wanted, but when the dog finally came to a stop in front of the guest bedroom door, he felt he had an idea.

Finally Dante released Julio’s hand, then looked from him to the door, whining loudly.

Julio shushed him, then glanced at the door before it clicked. Oh—Dante couldn’t open doors on his own, and he’d evidently taken to Héctor, so he probably just needed someone to let him back into his room. That made sense. Relaxing, he shook the drool off of his hand before reaching out to knock, but caught himself—right, Coco had said not to do that. So was he supposed to just…?

Another whine from Dante prompted him to lean closer to the door, speaking as loudly as he dared in the quiet house. “H-Héctor? I don’t know if you’re awake, but I’m going to let Dante into your room, okay?” He waited a moment, listening, and heard a dull _thud, thud_ somewhere inside the room. Hoping that meant a positive acknowledgment, Julio carefully turned the doorknob and opened the door just enough for the _alebrije_ to slip through.

Okay, that wasn’t so bad. Now he could just close the door and—

_BARK!_

Julio jumped back, horrified. He glanced around, but no one else had heard. Okay, maybe the dog was just excited to see Héctor again and wouldn’t—

_BARK!_

“ _Ay…!_ ” he whined, carefully slipping into Héctor’s room and looking for the _alebrije_ whilst avoiding looking in Héctor’s direction. “No, no, _shhh_ , Dante. You need to be quiet!” Yet, oddly enough, he didn’t see the dog anywh—

The door creaked shut behind him, and Julio found Dante sitting in front of the door, looking up at him with an open-mouthed smile and a lolling tongue.

“ _Dante_!” he hissed, and the dog responded by wagging his tail. Hearing Héctor shifting in the bed in the corner, Julio tensed, finally looking over his shoulder.

Héctor was sitting up against the pillows at his back, and waving weakly at Julio. It was dim in the room, with the moonlight and starlight shining through the window and the light from Dante shining from the door—not really enough light to judge an expression from. For all he knew, Héctor could be angry with him.

“Uh… s-sorry for waking you up,” Julio mumbled, reaching up to fiddle with his hat before remembering he wasn’t wearing it. “Your _alebrije_ doesn’t seem to want to let me leave.”

Héctor only shrugged, pulling up his legs and resting his arms on his kneecaps. Or his good arm, anyway—his other he kept tucked into his vest.

“Are… you having trouble sleeping, too?”

He nodded, and released a sharp huff of air. Julio assumed it was a sigh—or he hoped it was, anyway, and not an indication that he was annoying his father-in-law. Truly he couldn’t blame him for struggling with insomnia, though—for as bad as this whole situation was for everyone else, it was doubly worse for him.

“Today was rough,” Julio admitted, “but Mamá Imelda says everything should go better tomorrow, after…”

Héctor turned away from him, nodding slowly.

Oh, right. Biting his knuckles, Julio glanced back toward the door. “ _Lo siento._ I should, uh, be going now—”

_Rrrr…!_

With a yelp, Julio jumped back from the door. Dante had stood, wings outspread and tail wagging, and while he clearly was not angry, Julio still found himself taking a few steps back. Once he was a few more feet away, Dante sat down, folding his wings and looking pacified.

Julio did _not_ understand _alebrijes_.

Wincing, he looked back at Héctor, who seemed just as confused as he did. His father-in-law looked from Dante and back to Julio before pointing at the alebrije, gesturing at the two of them, and making a “talk” motion with his hand before shrugging helplessly.

Julio had to think for a moment before it clicked. “Oh, you… think he wants us to talk?”

As though in response, Dante laid down on the ground, rolling onto his back in front of the door, his tail repeatedly thwapping against the floor.

That was weird. Why did Dante care if he and Héctor talked? Unless Dante knew about… Oh, no. No no no. He was _not_ ready to confront Héctor about anything, and he was _not_ going to let some ridiculous dog boss him around!

Frowning, Julio marched purposefully toward the door, only to jump back when Dante sat up again, barking loudly.

Okay, or maybe he would. With an uneasy laugh, he looked back at Héctor, who was now balancing something—a notepad?—against his knee, and struggling to write in the dim lighting of the room. Julio watched this for a moment before switching on the lamp on the nearby nightstand.

Héctor blinked a few times in the sudden brightness, but gave Julio a grateful (if tired) smile before going back to writing. As he did so, Julio took the chance to look him over—the injuries that he’d had when they first encountered him on Dia de Muertos as well as the injuries he’d sustained from last night were now mostly covered in casts and bandages. Except for his ribs—those still looked pretty awful, and Julio found himself wincing when he saw Héctor breathe. No wonder his father-in-law took such short breaths.

Eventually Héctor finished writing and turned the notepad over to show Julio: _Don’t argue w alebrijes._

“I suppose that’s true,” Julio said with a slight laugh. “Especially not Pepita.”

Héctor winced, and for a terrifying moment Julio worried he’d upset his father-in-law, but then gave a silent chuckle, shaking his head.

“She scares you, too?” Julio asked, and Héctor nodded again. “ _Ay_. She can almost get as scary as Mamá Imelda.”

That made Héctor crack a genuine smile, and Julio felt a little better. Héctor scribbled onto the notepad: _Pepita doesn’t like me._

“Hmm.” Scratching his head, Julio considered that for a moment. “She’s scary, sure, but if she didn’t like you, wouldn’t she have run you out of here?”

Héctor’s brow furrowed in thought as he tapped his pen against the paper before shrugging.

“I’d be more worried about her accidentally biting me, or knocking me to pieces. Mamá Imelda says she wouldn’t do it, but…” Sighing, he glanced back toward the door. Dante was still standing guard, watching him patiently—clearly waiting for him to bring _that_ up. Or… he figured that’s what it was, anyway. He could never tell with _alebrijes_.

Hearing something tapping against the side of the bed, he turned back around—Héctor was holding out the notepad again. _Imelda knows her._

That was a good point, and Julio nodded. But then something clicked, and he fidgeted where he stood, wishing he’d put on his hat before he left. “ _Sí_. Uh… she’s had Pepita for a long time. Since Coco was little.” That seemed to catch Héctor’s attention, as he sat up a little straighter. “Coco told me a lot about it… Pepita would follow her around—it was like she knew Mamá Imelda wanted to keep an eye on her.”

Héctor smiled again—a more fond smile, this time. He wasn’t looking at Julio, but was clearly still listening—probably thinking of Imelda and Coco, back when they were alive.

“They both knew each other pretty well, I think.” Julio began to tug on the end of his shirt, looking away. “When you’ve been around someone for a long time, you can… can read them pretty well.”

He stopped there, feeling his chest tightening, like it was getting harder to breathe, or like his bones were trying to keep themselves from falling apart again. He didn’t want to be doing this—why did _he_ have to be the one to pick up on that? Why couldn’t it have been someone else? Someone who actually knew how to talk to Héctor?

Something nudged at his hand, and he gave a start, turning to see Dante looking up at him, tail wagging. The dog sat next to him, seeming calm as he watched him expectantly.

Well… okay.

Steeling himself, Julio faced Héctor again, who still seemed to be daydreaming. “I-I’ve known Coco since she was twenty,” he said, and immediately Héctor turned towards him again, face lit up in interest. “We were together until I died… About four decades, at least. And I got to see her once a year after that, and—” He paused, noticing that Héctor had turned away again, looking a little more somber. “O-oh, _lo siento_. I didn’t mean to…”

Héctor waved his hand in a “don’t worry about it” gesture.

“Th-the point is, I… I knew her pretty well. The way she lit up when she talked about music when Mamá Imelda wasn’t listening, or that look she got when she suggested that we sneak off to dance again.”

Getting back on track was helping—Héctor’s faint smile was back as he nodded along.

“I-I even saw some gestures she would do, that you do, too,” he went on. “Like when you grab your arm.”

Héctor let out a barely-audible chuckle.

“You two are… a lot alike. The more I thought about it, the more of her I saw in you. Or, uh, the other way around?” Julio found himself fidgeting again, and Dante butted his head under his hand. He flinched, but petted the dog’s head absently. “You know what I mean, _sí_?”

Again, Héctor nodded. Tired as he was, he seemed happy to talk about Coco, and probably to get his mind off of things.

Julio very badly wanted to leave now, so he could just leave his father-in-law with that. But… he couldn’t leave without saying something. He couldn’t do that to Coco, or Imelda, or any of the others… He had to…

He had to say it. He couldn’t beat around the bush any more. “Ah… _lo siento_ , Héctor. I really am sorry about this.” Steeling himself, he watched as Héctor looked at him in confusion before going on: “The point is… last night, when we… f-found you…”

Immediately Héctor’s confusion gave way to alarm, and Julio winced.

“We asked you some things, and wh-when… when we asked who did this to you… you shook your head, like you didn’t know.”

Héctor was staring at the far wall, his breathing starting to quicken.

Julio had to get this over with. “I know how Coco looked when she would lie, a-and you looked the same way.” Hesitantly he tried to look his father-in-law in the eye. “Héctor, y-you… you were lying.”

Héctor’s teeth were clenched tight as he began to shift his legs in the bed, like he was trying to push himself backward. Alarmingly, he seemed to be making noises: “N… n-n…”

Oh, no, this wasn’t what he wanted—what was he going to do? He didn’t know how to handle this!

Luckily Dante seemed to understand the situation. The dog left his side and scrambled up onto Héctor’s bed, stepping around to the other side of him and whining to get his attention.

“I-I haven’t told anyone,” Julio said quickly, and Héctor’s eyes flicked back toward him. “I haven’t said anything to Imelda or Coco yet. I think I’m the only one who knows. But I—we need to know who did this to you, Héctor.”

Héctor shut his eyes, shaking his head. “N… n…o…”

“Why can’t you tell us?” Julio asked, spreading his hands out beseechingly. A thought nagged at the back of his mind _—he’s trying to run away from this, like he did before—_ but he shut it down, trying to think of another possibility, one that wouldn’t sound so accusing. “Did—did whoever it was _threaten_ you?”

For a long moment Héctor didn’t respond, and Julio was terrified that he might refuse again, or just shut down. But Dante nudged him and licked the side of his head, and Héctor’s face twisted as he gave a very small nod.

Horror seemed to make Julio’s rib cage feel more hollow than it already was. He rubbed his forehead, thinking this over. “O-okay, that makes sense, but I… we can tell the police that. They can help us. They can protect you, so nothing bad happens while—”

Héctor shook his head again, shakily pulling up his notepad and scratching into it, the text barely legible: _not me_

“ _¿Qué?_ Wh-why wouldn’t they be able to help you—?”

With a rough growl, Héctor scratched his pen into the notepad again, only making a single line: _not me_

It took a moment before the realization clicked in Julio’s mind. “Th-they threatened to hurt someone _else_?”

Héctor dropped the pen and notepad, leaning his head into his knees as his hand clutched his skull. He was shaking badly, and Dante was whining.

“Héctor, who did they threaten to hurt?” Any fear Julio had was now set aside for the sheer urgency of the situation. He moved closer to the bed, trying to see his father-in-law’s face. “Someone here? O-one of _us_?”

That seemed to make him curl up even tighter, if it were possible, and Julio stepped back in alarm.

So that was it—he had been lying about the identity of his attacker because they’d threatened someone in the family. It made perfect sense, and Julio suddenly felt all the more stupid for not realizing it sooner. But there was still one piece missing. “You were lying about not knowing them, so that means you _do_ know who hurt you.”

Héctor let out a shaky breath, uncurling enough to grab his notepad again. He began to write, his hand shaking badly with the effort, and Julio moved so that he could see what was on the paper, barely making out the words: _dont tell_

And leave _him_ with the secret? That sounded awful, but Héctor was in such a bad way right now… He’d have to find another way around it later. “I-I won’t. Okay? I won’t tell.”

Héctor raised his head, finally looking Julio in the eye, and Julio pulled back at seeing the sheer terror displayed in those eyes. _This_ was why he’d been so quiet, why he hadn’t said anything, and why he’d rather let the investigation go nowhere even when he could very well provide the details they needed. He wasn’t afraid for his own sake—he was terrified of something happening to one of them.

Of something happening to his family.

Something tugged beneath Julio’s rib cage, but it wasn’t the anxiety he was so used to. Swallowing, he looked Héctor in the eyes, trying to look as determined as he was able. “I promise, Héctor. I’ll do everything I can to help.”

Slowly he turned back to his notepad, flipped to a blank page, and, doing his best to keep it out of Julio’s view, wrote one word. He gripped the notepad tightly, looking like he wanted to crush it. But finally he looked away, toward the window, and held it out to Julio, who read it.

At first the name didn’t immediately register, and Julio stared down at it. But slowly he felt something stirring within him—like a match had been struck in his chest, igniting something within that grew into a fire that seemed to crackle in his very marrow.

The one they had pursued two months ago, the one who had stolen Héctor’s songs, who had killed Héctor in the first place, who had tried to kill Miguel, who had been the reason that Coco had watched the window night after night, waiting, waiting for her father to come home.

“ _Ernesto_?” Julio asked, too angry to be alarmed at the rough growl that came out of his throat. “ _He_ did this to you?”

Immediately Héctor pulled the pad away, frantically scribbling over it with his pen, ripping the paper off the pad, tearing it, crumpling it. Dante was now leaning into his side, tail thumping against the mattress rhythmically.

“That man—he came after you? And threatened us? And did _that_ to you?” In his anger, he nearly forgot to keep his voice low, but he managed. He felt like his bones would scatter again, but for a different reason this time—like they would scatter from the sheer force of the anger burning within him.

He suddenly wished the man were here just so he had someone to strike at. He couldn’t bear how _furious_ it made him—that that man would come back after being defamed and mangled by a bell—how was he not broken to pieces?—and then go after their family all over again—!

“ _Don’t_ ,” Héctor croaked. He had folded in on himself again, trembling. “P… _please_ …”

As quickly as the fire had come, it left, and Julio was left feeling drained. But he knew the situation now, and that was what mattered. He reached out, placing a hand on his father-in-law’s shoulder. Héctor startled badly, looking up at him wide-eyed.

“It’ll be okay,” he said, trying to smile. “We won’t let anyone hurt you, or any of us, okay? And if you tell the police, they can—”

Héctor shook his head again, screwing up his face.

“No, Héctor, if the police know, they can—”

Letting out a snarl, Héctor shut his eyes, swallowing once, twice. “-’ll know… wh—” His words broke out into a ragged cough, but he held out his hand when Julio tried to step closer. He drew in a breath with a whimper, and tried to speak again: “when… tell…” And again he coughed, clutching at his bandaged throat.

Julio took a moment to think over the words. “You mean he’ll know if you say something to them?”

Wheezing, Héctor nodded weakly.

Part of him wanted to doubt it, but Héctor seemed so _sure_. Not to mention… if that were true, that Ernesto would somehow know if Héctor spoke to the police, that would have to mean that some of the police were in on this. Which… might also explain why they were being uncooperative.

What a mess. No wonder Héctor was a wreck.

“D- _don’t_ …” Héctor managed to croak out again, and Julio bit his lip.

“…We will figure this out, Héctor.” Slowly he reached out, placing a hand on Héctor’s shoulder again. “I’m not sure how, but… I know we can help you. We won’t let anything happen to our family, and… and that includes you.”

Uncurling a little, Héctor looked over at Julio, hesitated, and wrapped an arm around him, hugging him as best as he could from their awkward position.

Julio tensed up, feeling weird in the embrace, but Héctor probably needed this.

Finally Héctor let go, leaning back against his pillows again and somehow looking even more exhausted than he had before. “ _Gracias_ ,” he managed to whisper.

Julio nodded, stepping back away from the bed. He supposed there was nothing more to be said tonight—none of them had gotten nearly enough sleep, and they would need to rest to deal with the absolute mess that they would have to face in the morning.

“ _Buenas noches_ , Héctor,” he said, finally turning to head to the door. Dante didn’t oppose him this time, and he carefully slipped out, heading down to his room on the other side of the hall.

He’d confronted Héctor, and now they really _were_ making progress. Maybe now he could finally get some sleep.

 

* * *

 

 

The floorboards hadn’t creaked in some time, and the house was quiet. That _alebrije estúpido_ wasn’t barking again, no doors were opening, and there were no harsh whispers in the rooms.

Victoria allowed herself to relax where she sat crouched on the stairway, carefully pushing herself back upright. Her papá had definitely gone back to bed and was probably asleep by now—even then, he probably wouldn’t think anything of hearing her walking around the house now.

But he might’ve been suspicious if he’d heard her rush away from the door earlier.

She hadn’t meant to eavesdrop. That had not been the plan for tonight—she’d just wanted to sit downstairs and read, and keep that dog from making a mess in the house if she had to. That was it. But then that dog had gone up the stairs, and she’d heard her papá calling for him to stop. All she’d meant to do was follow them and get the _alebrije_ away so her papá could sleep. But then the dog had led him to that door, and…

She’d only stayed because the dog had been barking and she was going to step in to help. But then she’d heard her papá talking.

Leaning against the staircase railing, she found her mind still reeling from this information. So her “crazed fan” theory had been wrong—it had been Ernesto himself. Of course—she should’ve expected Héctor to lie.

Except… except not for that reason. She might’ve thought he would lie to protect himself, because he’d rather hide away somewhere than try to actually fix things—try to run away rather than actually face his problems. But what she’d heard…

_“Th-they threatened to hurt… one of us?”_

He’d kept quiet because he didn’t want them to get hurt.

She thought about it for a moment longer before shaking her head, frowning. It didn’t matter—none of it mattered. It didn’t change the fact that he was a runaway _músico_ that left her _abuela_ to fend for herself. He was still a selfish man that she would be happy to see gone whenever he decided he was done being there.

Fuming, Victoria crept back down the stairs, taking a seat on the couch again and staring at her book. No words actually registered—all she could think of was the conversation she’d overheard.

After about the third time she mulled over the conversation in her mind, a loud whine interrupted her thoughts. Glancing up, she saw Dante pawing at the front door and looking antsy. She rolled her eyes, opening up the door and allowing the dog to step outside before shutting it.

No. It didn’t matter. It didn’t matter what Héctor’s reasons for keeping quiet were—she finally knew what was going on, and she was going to find a way to fix this, whether he liked it or not.


	15. Alebrije Interlude: Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Dante is not always the goodest spirit guide.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hiya folks! Sorry this took me a bit--I've been a tad under the weather. x__x;; BUT I think I'm starting to do better now, so it's all good! Plus, now that it's NaNoWriMo, I SHOULD be churning out a bit more writing this month than usual. I hope.
> 
> Thanks to PaperGardener, Jaywings, and Pengychan for helping me out with this chapter!
> 
> I've been looking forward to this chapter for a while, so I hope you guys enjoy it.

Kicking at the dirt with his back legs, Dante gazed up into the night sky, mouth open in a wide grin. He wasn’t tired—he’d slept a great deal today already, and tonight was a good night for exploring! Of course, every night was a good night for exploring, unless his master needed him to be there. Or the tall bone man. But the tall bone man was sleeping now, so Dante did not need to be there, so that meant that it was indeed time to explore.

_Híjole_ , no one ever told him being an _alebrije_ would be so much work! Except Pepita- _gata_. In fact she’d said several times that being an _alebrije_ was a lot of work. But other than that, no one had told him.

He had to take care of his master—he always had, but now it was even more important—and go to the place with the bone people, and snuggle with his master, and not eat food off the table, and learn to fly, and not mark his territory inside the houses, and not eat food off the table, and now he also had to help take care of the tall bone man! But he could do it. He was a good spirit guide! His master told him so, and his master was usually right, except when he wasn’t.

And anyway, even though being an _alebrije_ was a lot of work, it wasn’t hard work. All he had to do was follow his instincts, and that was easy. Whenever he did that, he felt the same way as when someone was scratching right behind his ear, or telling him he was a good boy, even if someone was actively telling him he was _not_ being a good boy. Instincts were weird like that.

Right now, he felt very good about exploring the land of the bone people. So he would do that!

Kicking his back feet a couple more times for good measure, Dante trotted to the edge of the yard, wiggled his way through the gate, and began his midnight stroll down the street. The winter air was cool against his skin—very different from the air where his master lived, but Dante could deal with it for now. If he got too cold, he would just go back home. Or run around. He had nowhere in particular he wanted to go, anyway.

A little dragonfly _alebrije_ fluttered by, and without a second thought he changed course to follow it.

As he followed, he thought back to the bone people at the house. They were all very unhappy, but that was okay—it just meant Dante needed to do his job. And usually when he did his job, he got _treats_ , so it was all good for him. He was a little surprised at how sad and scared the tall bone man had been, though, even after what Pepita had told him. The tall bone man had been very sad That One Night (and Dante had been good and helped fix that!), but now he seemed even more sad and scared.

The dragonfly _alebrije_ zipped to the left, moving a little faster now, and Dante turned to follow, picking up his pace.

What had he been thinking about? _Oh_ , right!

Dante did not entirely understand why the tall bone man was so sad and scared, but he would surely do his best to help. Fortunately that was one thing he knew how to help with! He noticed that the tall bone man seemed to be thinking about sad things a lot. While he was not sure what, or why anyone would want to think about sad things to begin with, Dante knew he could remind the tall bone man about happy things he could think about instead. Like snuggling. Or being petted. Or scritches. Or kisses! That usually worked, but then sometimes the tall bone man would forget about the happy things again. But that was okay, because Dante could remind him!

But… another thing he noticed was that the tall bone man was missing some of his bones. If that was why he was sad, then Dante could understand that. He felt sad whenever he lost any of his bones, too.

Or when things hit him in the face.

Like now.

Whining, Dante scrambled back, rubbing his nose and looking around. He hadn’t been paying attention and had walked right into a wall. _Ay!_ That stupid _alebrije_ had led him into a wall! That wasn’t nice!

He looked up, seeing the dragonfly buzzing just over the wall, and jumped up onto his back legs, barking. [ _¡Oye!_ That is not nice! You are a bad bug! Come back!] No matter how much he barked and jumped, though, the dragonfly wouldn’t get any lower and he couldn’t reach it. To make matters worse, he was getting a dreadful itch in that one spot right between his shoulders, so bad that he had to stop barking to scratch it, except there was something stuck to his shoulders, something—

Oh. Wings. He forgot he had those.

… _Oh!_

With an open-mouthed smile, Dante leaped into the air, flapping his tiny wings to take him upward. He wound up bumping into the wall once or twice, but eventually his wings carried him up enough to get over the wall and follow the _alebrije_ again. He wasn’t entirely sure why he was following this _alebrije_ , but it wasn’t like he had any other plans. He’d done what needed to be done at the bone people’s house, as far as he could tell, so trying to catch a glowy bug probably wouldn’t hurt. Thought it also probably wouldn’t hurt to check on his master, either… He hoped Pepita- _gata_ was taking good care of him.

But then, he didn’t feel the specific _need_ to go after his master. Nothing particularly itched for him to go back to the other side right now. Still, shouldn’t he go check on him? His master could be sad while sleeping, maybe having a… a nightmare! But then, Pepita- _gata_ was keeping an eye on him, so he shouldn’t have to go, but…

Suddenly Dante realized that he couldn’t really see any ground beneath him. He nearly panicked before remembering that he was flying—he didn’t have to fall! It was okay. But he wasn’t sure when the ground had disappeared. That was very strange. Looking back, he could see one of the big towers behind him—was that where he had come from? Was this bug _alebrije_ taking him to a different tower? …Why was he following this _alebrije_ anyway? He forgot. Oh well!

The _alebrije_ led him across the vast expanse to another tower, this one farther away than he had expected. Dante wondered if maybe he should turn back, or head back to the other side where his master was, but something felt right about coming to this tower. So he continued following the little dragonfly until it very suddenly darted downward, immediately lost in the shining lights below.

[Bug!] he shouted, barking frantically as he dove downward. [Bug! Come back!]

He was so focused on looking for the dragonfly that he hit a strand of fluttery papers hanging between two buildings, went into a spin, and tumbled down to the street below. He managed to flutter his wings just enough so the landing didn’t hurt, but he still felt a little dizzy as he got to his feet. [B-bug?] he called out tentatively, snuffling around for any scent of it as he waited for everything to stop spinning so much. But then he caught scent of something else—something _much_ better than bugs.

[ _FOOD_!] Dante cried, darting down the street as he followed the scent. There weren’t many bone people out tonight, and those who were there didn’t pay him a second glance as he scampered around into an alley between two buildings, where garbage bags were piled up around a dumpster. Dante had already eaten—the one bone lady had given him some scraps from their meal—but more food was always welcome, and this food smelled... well, like food! It was meat and that was good enough for him.

Just as he was approaching the potential meal, however, some of the trash bags began to rustle, and Dante paused, sniffing the air again hesitantly. Yes, he could definitely smell the food, and the garbage, and the garbage that might also be food, but there was another smell there, something like—

Something small and glowing wriggled its way out from under a bag, and immediately yelped.

[ _¡PERRO GRANDE!_ ] she shrieked, backing up, hackles raised.

Dante backed up as well, ears back and eyes wide. Large dog? Where did she see a large dog?! He glanced deeper down the alley and back, but saw nothing—just the little dog _alebrije_. Wait, was she talking about _him_? No, that couldn’t be right—Pepita- _gata_ was large, and Dante wasn’t large like her, so he couldn’t be a large dog. But then, Pepita- _gata_ was a cat, and he was a dog, so maybe—

[ _Soy un perro_ mas _grande_ , you know!] The _alebrije_ was now baring her fangs and growling, though it wasn’t a very deep growl.

Dante whimpered, tilting his head. [But you do not _look_ larger. You look very small.]

[ _NO_! _¡Soy un perro_ mas _grande!_ ] She let out another little growl.

[If you say so?] Dante wasn’t really sure how she was larger, but if she said she was, he supposed he couldn’t argue. He didn’t much like the way she was snarling at him, but he would have to get a better look to see if she really was bigger. Carefully he crept closer, ignoring her growls for the time being, and tried to walk around her to sniff.

[ _Mas mas mas mas_ mas _grande_ —huh?] Immediately the little dog stopped growling and turned to sniff at Dante curiously.

The two dog alebrijes followed each other in a few circles as they sniffed each other, Dante lowering his head to get closer to the little dog. She smelled like dog food, and more dogs, and yucky smelly spray stuff, and something else, something familiar, something...

Now it was Dante’s turn to snarl, backing away and showing his teeth. [ _You_!] he cried with an accompanying bark that made the smaller alebrije jump up and growl back. [You are _bad_! You smell like the bad man!]

[Bad man?] the other alebrije repeated, dropping her threatening act.

[ _¡Sí!_ The bad man that tried to hurt my master! You smell like him!] The thought made him bristle, his wings flaring out and flapping.

[Oh.] Now the alebrije sat down, tipping her head to one side. [I didn’t know my master did that.]

[ _¡Sí!_ Your master is a bad man!] Dante said, though he felt his anger fading and giving way to confusion as he watched the other dog. She was now scratching at the little collar around her neck, not seeming terribly concerned about his accusations. [He... he attacked my master! A boy! Who came from the other side!]

[Oh. That was your master?] She began to scratch at one of her giant ears.

[ _¡Sí!_ It was! Your master is _bad_!] What was she not understanding about that?

[ _¿Sí?_ ] she asked, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. [I know that.]

Dante balked, opening and closing his mouth a few times before giving a long, loud whine. [ _¿Que?_ ] he finally asked desperately, wings twitching. [But... why are you with the bad man if you know he is bad?]

[I am his spirit guide. I have to guide him.] The dog pawed at a scrap of cardboard on the ground. [Also, he gives good belly rubs and lots of treats.]

_Oooooh!_ That made much more sense. Relaxing, Dante sat on the ground, wagging his tail. [ _Entiendo_. Belly rubs and treats are very good.] But then he shook himself, tongue thwapping against his eye. [But you are not a very good _alebrije_! Your master still doing bad things! He hurt the tall bone man!]

[We _try_ to help…]

[Then…  why is he still bad?]

[Because my master is very stupid and also an idiot.]

[Oh.] Dante blinked back at her, not really sure what to say.  His master did not always do what he wanted him to do, but Dante _did_ ultimately get him and the tall bone man together, like he was supposed to. This _alebrije_ —who even was she, anyway?—wasn’t even _with_ her master. Then again neither was he, but he felt like he should be here, so that was okay. [Then what are you doing here, instead of stopping him from being stupid and bad? And also what is your name?]

[Zita,] she replied. [And I got out when his _amigo estúpido_ left the door open. I need to be out here. But I don’t know why. Do you?] Before he could answer, Zita turned around, sniffing at the garbage again. [Do you think it is to eat garbage food? My master never lets me eat it at home.]

Garbage food sounded delicious right now! But, wait, no. _Alebrije_ duty first. [I do not know why I am here either. I have been taking care of the tall bone man, but I needed to come out here.] He scratched his shoulder for a moment, thinking. [The tall bone man is asleep right now but he has been very sad. The bad man stole some of his bones.]

[Oh,] Zita replied, taking a moment to bite one of the garbage bags and try to pull it open. [That is very interesting. My master stole some bones last night.]

[Oh.] Dante let out a yawn and stood up to stretch his legs, while Zita continued to tug at the garbage.

And suddenly both dogs’ heads jerked up, their tails wagging.

[ **OH!** ]

Immediately they were dancing around each other, yipping and barking and unable to keep still. Dante could feel it—that wonderful, warm feeling when he’d done something _right_ , that amazing sensation like someone scratching his ears and saying _good boy, good boy_. [Your master!] he cried. [Your master! He took the tall bone man’s bones! He has them!]

[The bones!] Zita exclaimed, and Dante knew she felt the same way. [The bones! They belong to the tall bone man you are taking care of!]

Dante’s tail was wagging so quickly it almost hurt. [Where are they? The bones?]

[They are at the small place we are staying at! It is very small and smelly and I hate it but that is where they are!] Zita was already scampering off, and Dante followed her. She continued to rattle things off as she ran. [One of my master’s _amigos_ came by, but it was not the one that comes to walk us. I think he wanted to do bad things to the bones, but I did not stay.]

Dante’s lips curled back in a snarl. [Bad things are _bad_.]

[ _Sí_ , they are.]

They continued running down the street, not a soul sparing them a glance, as far as Dante could tell. He thought he may have heard some bone person running, but that didn’t matter. _Alebrijes_ did what they liked, and right now, these two were on important _alebrije_ business.

After running around down several streets (Zita seemed to be running back and forth in strange directions, which almost made Dante wonder if she had gotten lost, but she seemed to know what she was doing) and stopping a few times to take a breath, Zita stopped at a door that led into a building, pawing at it and yipping.

[What is this?] Dante asked.

[This is where to get in, but it’s shut, so I have to yell at it until it opens.]

Ah, that made sense, though his own experience was a little different sometimes. [Jumping and scratching works, too!] He began jumping at the door, scratching at it and barking louder than Zita could yip. A few bone people shouted at them in the distance—some people did not like their barking for some reason—but Dante ignored them, continuing to jump at the door until his flailing tongue caught something.

Gagging, Dante scrambled backward, tugging frantically to try to get his tongue untangled from... whatever it had caught on—some handle or something sticking out of the door, it looked like. And tasted like. To his surprise, while his tongue didn’t loosen, the door did, and Zita happily trotted in without him. Whining, Dante followed her, repeatedly yanking his head back all the while to try to get his tongue un-stuck. By the time he got inside, it finally loosened, pulling back and smacking him in the nose.

[See?] Zita said, looking back at Dante. [You just need to yell at it.]

[Oh.] Dante shook his head; he supposed she was right.

The building they had entered seemed to consist of nothing but stairs. That seemed like a funny place to live, but Zita didn’t seem very concerned as she began to hop up the stairs, so Dante followed her. They seemed to be going up an awful lot of stairs, and Zita had to stop once or twice to catch her breath. There were other doors at different points, and Dante considered barking at them until they opened, but Zita ignored them.

Finally they reached a door that seemed like all the other ones to Dante, but apparently Zita had decided that this was the one that needed to open. She approached it, and Dante stood at her side as she prepared to start barking.

Except she never got the chance, because it suddenly swung open, and a very tired looking bone person stepped out and walked down the stairs, yawning. He took no notice of either of them, and left the door to ease itself shut. Zita was quick to scamper through before it shut, and Dante followed, only to whine when his midsection caught between the door and the doorway. With a few grunts, he squeezed himself through, and scrambled to catch up with the Zita, who was already eagerly running down the hallway, her tongue lolling. She stopped at one particular door, sitting in front of it, and Dante stared up at it.

Taking a whiff of the door, Dante was surprised to smell more _alebrijes_ on the other side, among other things. [What is this?]

[This is the _estúpido_ small place where my master is staying,] Zita replied.

[Oooooh!] Dante’s tail wagged rapidly, and he looked around the hallway before sniffing thoroughly around the door, eager to commit it to memory. He didn’t feel quite so excited now, however—the “good boy” feeling had faded, which was a little strange. Surely he was supposed to be here?

[He keeps the tall bone man’s bones in here, past a door we can’t get through,] Zita went on.

[I will get the bones back!] Dante replied, drawing his tongue into his mouth and trying to give the door a serious look. Oddly enough, something within him was starting to churn uneasily, but he supposed that wasn’t much different from how he felt when the bad man had his master and tried to hurt him. This time, the bad man had something that belonged to the tall bone man, so maybe he was just feeling uneasy about that?

Zita tilted her head. [You will? But I do not think—]

“I don’t—I don’t _care_ how late it is!” snarled a voice from the other side of the door.

Dante immediately bristled—he _knew_ that voice. He knew that smell, too. That was the bad man, and he was probably doing bad things. And he had the tall bone man’s bones in there, and...

“None of the others have gotten back to me yet, and you are going to search every inch of this tower until you find her, or—!”

Zita’s tongue lolled in a pleased smile. [Oh! That is my master.] Standing up, she put her paws against the door and began to yip. [Master! Let me in! I am hungry and did not get to eat garbage food.]

“...Wait.” Hurried footsteps tramped up to the door, and it creaked open.

Zita happily trotted inside, and Dante, making up his mind, nearly bowled her over as he scrambled past her, sniffing around the dark apartment frantically.

“What the—?!”

[ _¡¿PERRO?!_ OTHER _PERRO_?!]

[ _¡PERRO GRANDE!_ ]

[WHY IS _PERRO_ HERE?!]

The sound of the other three dogs yipping and shouting at Dante filled him with a strange fear and nervousness—at least, he was pretty sure that’s what was causing that feeling. These were all strange _alebrijes_ but they didn’t matter—he had to find the bones, so he could take them back to the tall bone man, so he could be a good _alebrije_! So he darted through the apartment, sniffing and trying to ignore the voices and smells of the other _alebrijes_ , and he could just barely smell it—it was definitely the tall bone man’s smell, if he could only just—

“ _You_.”

Dante froze. All of the little dog _alebrijes_ went silent, and the room became very quiet. And Dante could feel it—the crackling of anxiety and wrongness between his wings. Wrong—something was wrong.

Slowly he turned his head to see the bad man standing there, staring down at him in a mix of shock and anger. The man’s eyes flicked from him, to a door on the other side of the room, and back.

Dante followed his gaze, and looked back to him.

He wasn’t sure whether he or the man moved first, but in a moment they were both running for the door, and Dante could smell the bones there, somewhere. He just had to get that door to open, and—

Something shoved him in the side, and while he tumbled it only took him a moment to get back on his feet. The bad man was there, blocking the door, blocking what he’d stolen. “You’re _not_ getting it back that easily, Héctor,” he said, glaring.

Dante wasn’t sure why the man was calling him that name, but he wasn’t going to let a bone man stop him. Fighting against the bad feeling in his gut, Dante let out a snarl, leaping at the man and preparing to bite. Yet before he could reach the man, all four of the small _alebrijes_ were leaping at him, biting at his legs and paws and ears and tail. With a startled _howl_ , Dante reeled back, trying to shake the tiny dogs away. [NO! Stop! Let go!]

[ _No_!] one of them snarled as she dangled from Dante’s ear.

[You will _not_ hurt our master!] growled another as he gnawed on one of Dante’s back legs. [Terrible _alebrije_!]

[ _¡Oye!_ ] Dante cried desperately. [Zita! I thought you would help me?]

To his surprise, Zita let out as threatening of a growl as she was able as she bit into his forepaw. [Not if you attack my master!]

Oh, this was _not_ going well. Growling, Dante shook his head to throw the one off of his ear, then rolled over and kicked out his legs to throw the others off, ignoring their yelps of protest. Just as he righted himself, something struck him _hard_ in the head, causing the world to spin briefly and his legs to stumble.

“Don’t you _dare_ hurt them, you little—!”

Something—the door— _banged_ against the wall, followed by footfalls muffled by the carpet. More bad men, a couple of the ones who had tried to hurt his master, he _knew_ that scent. “ _Señor_ , we found—”

“ _Sí_ , I’m aware! Now get this _alebrije_!”

_No, no no no!_ This wasn’t supposed to happen! It wasn’t supposed to be like this! He was just trying to be a good spirit guide!

Dante struggled to get back up to his feet, his head still smarting from where he’d been hit. Through his daze he could see the other four _alebrijes_ glaring and growling at him, while two bone men in dark suits came closer, their hands out to grab him. The bad man was also nearby, holding a long stick of some sort and looking worried. Dante could sense the fear coming from him, meaning he might be hesitant to attack. But if Dante jumped him, then the _alebrijes_ and other bad men would jump him, and... and...

With a desperate snarl, Dante leaped at one of the two bad men, successfully knocking his head off. The man’s body flailed and fell back, and just as Dante felt triumphant, something grabbed him from behind and pulled him back. With a frenzied howl he tried to wriggle away, but the other man had reattached his head and grabbed him by the collar.

“Good,” the bad man said, and Dante felt a flurry of panic in his chest because nothing was ever _good_ if a bad person was saying it was. “Get him locked up somewhere, and I’ll get a message out to Héctor that his _perro_ is not coming home.”

[ _NO!_ ] With another burst of panic, Dante wrenched himself free of the men’s grasp, his collar snapping loose with the effort. At first he moved to run for the door, but the bad man had already slammed it shut. He looked around frantically, and noticed one of the few light sources in the apartment right now—the city lights shining through the window.

“ _Grab him_! Don’t let him get away!”

A window was not an ideal thing to jump out of when it was shut, but Dante had little choice at this point. With a final whimper, he charged at the window, and jumped.

 

* * *

 

 

It had been a particularly uneventful day at Santa Cecilia. Pepita quite enjoyed it—it was easier to sunbathe here than it was back on the other side of the veil, and things were significantly less tense. The worst was just keeping an eye on Dante’s kitten when he was with the smallest kitten, to make sure he didn’t wind up doing something that may hurt her. But Miguel was always very careful, so there was little to worry about. She also had to keep out of sight from most of Imelda’s litter, since they weren’t quite used to a stray cat wandering their territory. But so long as they only saw her outside, they didn’t seem all that concerned. Overall, it was quite nice here.

But her Imelda would soon miss her on the other side of the veil, so she would not be staying here for long.

At the very least, they had... Dante with them. Pepita still wasn’t fully sure how much she could depend on him, but, she reminded herself, her instincts had instructed her to leave Imelda’s mate in his care. She would just have to trust him and hope all went well.

When Miguel went to bed that night, Pepita stayed with him, curling up at his side and purring. He had seemed worried about not seeing Dante, but her presence calmed him, and eventually her purring eased him to sleep. It seemed like the night would pass by just as peacefully as the afternoon had and Pepita welcomed it, soon falling asleep herself.

Until a terrible sense of unease woke her.

Her fur bristled, and she didn’t know _why_ , only knowing that something was wrong. Quickly she looked over Miguel, but the kitten was sleeping peacefully—all was well here. Could someone bad have gotten into the house? She doubted it, but she would take a look anyway. Fortunately Miguel had left the bedroom door open a crack for her, and she slipped out, searching and sniffing for anything out of the ordinary.

Finding nothing inside, she took her search to the edges of the family’s territory, and then she heard it: a distant, desperate _howl_.

Dante.

Before she realized it she was bolting down the street, heading toward the sound of the howls. _Perro estúpido_ , she thought, eyes narrowing as she ran. _Why aren’t you staying with Imelda’s mate?!_ As she got nearer, she could make out his voice:

[PEPITA- _GATA_! PEPITA- _GATA_! PEPITA- _GATAAOOOOOOO_!]

There—she could see him scrambling down the street toward her, still howling like an idiot. A few humans were poking their heads out of windows, but, fortunately, ignored him after that, seemed unconcerned about a stray xolo. But Pepita could smell something that was immediately very concerning, even if the humans didn’t notice it in the darkness:

Blood.

[PEPITA- _GATAAAAAAAaaaaa..._ ] he howled again, weaker this time, and staggered to a halt, head dipping and tongue lolling.

Pepita was finally close enough to see the cuts all around his sides, dripping blood onto the cobblestone ground. His collar was gone, his legs were shaking, and his breath was coming in heavy, exhausted gulps of air. But they couldn’t stay here—two animals standing in the street were never safe. [ _Sígueme,_ ] she whispered, slipping into an alley. Dante managed to limp after her, leaning against the building wall. [What happened?]

[Pepita- _gata_ , _lo siento_ , I am a very very _very_ bad _alebrije_ ,] he whimpered, licking a cut on his foreleg as he looked up at her, his tail tucked between his legs. [ _Lo siento._ ]

By some miracle Pepita managed to stay calm, though all manner of terrible things ran through her mind, seeing him in this condition. [What _happened_ , Dante?]

[I knew it was good to leave the tall bone man’s house for a while, and... and I found an _alebrije_ who belonged to the bad man.] He paused to catch his breath, shutting his eyes.

Pepita’s tail lashed behind her, her muscles growing tense. [ _¿Sí?_ And?]

[She told me the bad man had the tall bone man’s bones,] he went on, making her perk up. [She showed me where they were.]

So that was it—the bad man who had hurt Imelda’s mate before, who had tried to hurt the kitten, was the one who had stolen his hand. [Where were they?] she prodded.

[In… in a building. Where the bad man was.]

[What building?]

Dante stared at the ground in concentration, chest heaving. [A… a tall building. With stairs.]

Pepita swished her tail. [Do you remember anything else about it?]

[ _Sí_. They were… in a room.]

_Ay, perros._ [You tried to get them back?] she asked, changing tactics.

Dante gave a low whine in confirmation.

But... that didn’t quite add up. If Dante was following his instincts, then this should have all gone right. Unless... [Dante,] she said, waiting until he looked back at her. [Were you following your instincts when you went there?]

[ _S-sí._ They told me _good boy, good boy_. I was being a good _alebrije_. But then after we got there, I didn’t feel good anymore.  But... I... I thought I was supposed to...]

Pepita’s hackles raised in fury. [ _¡Perro estúpido!_ ] she snarled. [If you go against your _alebrije_ instincts, nothing good will happen!]

[I know,] he whined miserably. [I am a very bad spirit guide.]

As quickly as her fury had come, it drained as she sensed just how truly awful the _perro_ felt. Taking a moment to settle her fur, she stepped closer. [No, you are not,] she said, a comforting _purr_ rumbling in her chest. [You have made a mistake. A very, _very_ bad mistake,] she added firmly, looking him in the eye, [but there is nothing to be done to change it.]

Dante still looked exhausted and upset as he looked away from her, but she could feel some of the tension leave him, at least.

[We cannot change it, but we can _fix_ it,] Pepita went on. [What else happened?]

[The bad man saw me, and other bad men tried to catch me, and the bad man said that he would tell the tall bone man... something...] Dante slid down to the ground, still panting. [I could not get the bones... I could not get out... so I jumped...]

[...out the window,] Pepita finished, eying the cuts along his side. If he had stayed on the other side, the wounds would have healed faster, but so long as he was here, they would take longer to heal. Which he would have known if he weren’t an idiot. [So the bad man thinks that Imelda’s mate sent you?]

[ _Sí_... I think...?] Dante shivered. [The bad man... is planning bad things... for _nuestra familia_...]

Anxiety crackled through Pepita’s fur, and her purring ceased. It was a moment before she was able to speak. [... _Perro_ , you have made a mess of things.]

[ _Lo siento, Pepita-gata._ ]

[It is _not_ okay,] she said, and licked his head. [But we will fix things. You have found out where Imelda’s mate’s hand is, and who has taken it, and that is a great help.]

[It is?] Dante’s tail gave a hopeful wag, thumping once, twice against the cobblestone.

[ _Sí_. But the family is still in danger, and I must help.] With that, she started back to the entrance of the alley, only to stop when she heard Dante trying to struggle to his feet. [No. Stay. You must rest.]

[ _Pero_ —]

[ _Stay_ , Dante. You cannot help until you are better. Until then, I will help our family.]

With that, Pepita darted out into the street, heading for the veil, and ignoring the low, mournful howl behind her.


	16. The Statement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Dante's actions have consequences, and Héctor must say something... so to speak.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HIYA FOLKS! Sorry for the wait--Christmas is a busy time!
> 
> Okay so, as some of you know, I have another fic collection I'm working on between chapters of this. What some of you may _not_ know is that one of the chapters to that is a ["missing scene" from this fic, taking place between chapters 3 and 5](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15280206/chapters/39136126). HOWEVER, you DO NOT need to read the story I linked in order to understand everything that's going on here. Okay? The "missing scene" is _very violent_. If you are not comfortable with that, just continue reading here. But if you're curious about what-all happened to Héctor between getting his hand pulverized and getting found by Imelda, and you think you can stomach some violence, the "missing scene" may interest you.
> 
> With that out of the way... Thanks to Jaywings and Papergardener for beta-reading this chapter. You guys are the best!
> 
> And now, I hope you guys enjoy this next chapter.

The sun was just barely starting to rise as Rosita made her way back home, basket full of _pan dulce_ in hand. Up ahead, Pepita paused in her hurried steps to look back at her, wings and tail twitching in agitation.

“Is everything all right, Pepita?” she asked, looking up at the cat in concern.

Pepita only hurried on ahead, and Rosita did her best to keep up.

The _alebrije_ had been like this all morning, insisting on following her as she made a quick trip into town. A few times she’d even prevented her from taking certain streets, lying down obstinately in the middle of the sidewalk. Rosita couldn’t understand it—she’d only gone out to get a treat for everyone, as she usually did when everyone was stressed out, but Pepita was acting like it was quite the dangerous undertaking.

Whatever the case was, Rosita was not going to argue with a giant winged jaguar.

While nothing seemed out of place when they reached the _hacienda_ , Pepita was no less agitated, hurriedly taking her spot in the yard and standing next to the house like a watchdog. Rosita reached into her basket, pulling out an _alebrije_ treat she’d purchased and holding it out to the cat. Pepita perked up, stooping down to sniff at the colorful fish-shaped treat before taking it into her mouth in one gentle bite. Finally she let out a short _purr_ , and Rosita smiled.

As she expected, Victoria was already up, having fixed a pot of coffee. “ _Buenas dias_ , Victoria!” Rosita said as she set the basket of pastries down. “Were you up late again last night?”

“A bit,” Victoria mumbled, reaching out to grab a chocolate concha. “I was just thinking.”

“You could always do your thinking during the day instead. Nothing to do about it now, though... When you’re done with that, would you like to help me with breakfast?”

“ _Sí._ ”

The next hour or so passed by quickly as the others made their way downstairs: first the twins, who were passing a sketchbook back and forth, and then Coco and Julio, the latter looking like he had had a harder time sleeping than his wife. Strangely, Imelda did not come downstairs with any of the others.

“Is Mamá not up yet?” Coco asked, looking around the dining room and then back up the stairs.

“I haven’t seen her,” Victoria answered from the kitchen. “She could use the extra rest, though.”

Rosita couldn’t argue with that. She stepped out into the dining room, looking around for a certain _alebrije_. “What about Dante? I bought a treat for him.”

“I let him out late last night. He probably went back to Miguel.”

“Oh, that’s too bad.” Digging through the basket, she found the bone-shaped alebrije treat she’d picked out for the dog and took it into the kitchen. As she did so, however, she felt a strange tug of worry. “Pepita seemed anxious this morning. Do you think something could have happened to Dante?”

“Oh, something _definitely_ happened to Dante,” Óscar said, glancing up from his sketchbook.

“He probably chased a chicken _alebrije_ halfway across town,” Felipe said, reaching over to write something on the paper.

“Or he got himself stuck in a fake tree.”

“Or ran into a wall.”

“Or—”

Julio cleared his throat. “Dante is an _alebrije_. I’m sure he’s fine, _hermana_.”

Before she could say anything else, the stairs creaked with the sound of unsteady footfalls. The family exchanged glances before quickly realizing what that meant, and craned their necks toward the stairs. Sure enough, Imelda and Héctor were slowly making their way downstairs, Héctor with his good arm thrown over Imelda’s shoulders and Imelda with her arm over his shoulders as she helped him limp down. They were both focused on the task (not an easy one with Héctor’s injured leg), but the second they reached the floor, everyone quickly went back to whatever they had been doing before, as though they hadn’t just been staring.

Well, everyone but Rosita, anyway. “So good to see you, Papá Héctor!” she said. Her smile wavered when he flinched, but returned when he gave a shaky smile back. “Did you sleep well?”

Héctor waved his hand in an uncertain gesture.

“ _Está bien._ You’ll have all day today to rest up—”

“ _After_ we get back from the police station,” Imelda cut in, and Héctor glanced away. She squeezed his upper arm in return. “But she _is_ right, Héctor. This won’t take long, and then you can take it easy.”

The gentle gesture did not go unnoticed, and Rosita and Coco exchanged knowing, delighted glances. Any bit of progress between those two was good!

“Sit down,” Rosita implored. “We have breakfast ready, and coffee, and I bought everyone’s favorite _pan dulce._ ”

“Very well, but we won’t be too long,” Imelda replied, helping Héctor over to the table. “We’d like to get to the police station early. Best to get this over with as soon as possible.”

As expected, Héctor ate very little food, seeming to have trouble with swallowing. It hurt Rosita’s throat even to watch, but she refilled his coffee mug, hoping that the warm drink and the caffeine would be enough to help him this morning. He had a difficult task ahead, and it would be even more difficult on an empty stomach… so to speak.

While Rosita and Coco chatted a little, breakfast was oddly quiet, with the twins absorbed in their work, Victoria and Imelda lost in their thoughts, and Héctor and Julio seeming focused on staying awake. At one point Rosita thought she heard her brother whispering something to Héctor, but decided it wouldn’t be best to pry.

The relative silence, however, was suddenly broken by a low growling from outside. Héctor tensed up, and Imelda twisted herself around to look at the door. “Pepita?” she murmured.

“She was very tense this morning... I’m not sure why,” Rosita remarked. “She followed me all the way to the _pasteleria_ and back.”

Héctor and Julio exchanged fearful glances, but Rosita laughed. “Oh, you two. You know she wouldn’t attack one of us.”

“Whatever the problem is,” Imelda said, stepping away from the table to open the door, “we can figure it out after we’ve—” And she jerked back in surprise to see a police officer standing at their doorstep. His hand was outstretched as though he were just about to knock at the door, and Pepita was looming behind him.

The man looked just as surprised as Imelda did, but quickly recovered, glancing down at the notepad he carried. “ _¿Rivera Familia de Zapateros?_ ”

The rest of the family slowly began to gather behind Imelda, aside from Héctor, who stayed rooted at the table, and Julio, who stood near Héctor, watching the officer from a distance.

“ _Sí_ ,” Imelda answered, crossing her arms. “We’re closed on Sundays.”

Undeterred, the officer flipped to another page on his notepad. “Are any of you in ownership of a winged canine _alebrije_?”

Rosita’s ribcage tightened. “Dante?” she whispered.

“...We are,” Victoria said, eying the police officer cautiously. “What’s this about?”

“We received a report early this morning that an _alebrije_ matching the description broke into an apartment, caused extensive damage, and attacked no less than two people.”

“ _What_?!” Felipe cried.

“That doesn’t sound like our _alebrije_!” Óscar went on.

Wringing her hands, Rosita stepped forward. “There must be some mistake... Dante is a good dog. He wouldn’t—”

“Dante?” The man looked up at her, brow furrowing, and dug into his pocket, pulling out a thin blue object. “This was found in the apartment after the _alebrije_ escaped.”

When he held it out for them to see, the family collectively gasped. It was indeed a torn blue dog collar, with a tag reading “DANTE — _RIVERA FAMILIA DE ZAPATEROS_ ” still dangling from it.

Pepita let out another low growl behind the officer, while Rosita covered her mouth in horror. “Oh, _no_!”

“But he was just helping Papá last night,” Coco said, glancing back at Héctor. Rosita followed her gaze, alarmed to see that Héctor was breathing quickly. Without another word, the two of them hurried to his side, Coco placing a hand on his shoulder and Rosita taking a seat next to him.

“ _Tranquilo_ , Papá Héctor,” she said, stealing a glance back at the front door. “Mamá Imelda will get this sorted out.”

“This can’t be right!” Imelda snatched the collar away, examining it. “Dante is not a violent _alebrije_ by any means. An idiot, to be sure, but not violent.”

“She’s right.”

“He wouldn’t attack someone unprovoked.”

“An _alebrije_ should not be attacking _anyone_ , except when it is directly defending its owner,” the officer said, growing more firm. “Unless any of you were present at an apartment building two towers away from here last night, and you were being threatened, your _alebrije_ had no cause to attack any person. Were any of you there?”

Imelda’s eyes narrowed, her grip tightening around the collar. “No.”

“The apartment owner claims they were attacked unprovoked. The xolo _alebrije_ chased another _alebrije_ into their apartment and then proceeded to attack the owner. Others witnessed the attack as well.”

Rosita couldn’t help herself, sitting up straight in her chair. “Is—is he all right?” Part of her wanted to walk back to the officer, but she didn’t want to leave Héctor, who looked to be in the middle of a mild panic attack. “Where is he now?”

“The _alebrije_ fled the scene, jumping out the window,” the officer answered, jotting something down in his notepad. “We have several officers searching for him now.”

“What will happen when he is found?” Imelda asked, looking at the officer again.

“He’ll need to be quarantined for at least a week, during which he will need to stay within your property at all times. If he is found outside of this property during the quarantine period, we will need to take action.” Before anyone could ask just what that “action” entailed, he turned to another page in his notebook. “And right now, you will be required to pay for the damages done to the victim’s property as soon as possible.”

“And who is this victim?” Victoria asked, crossing her arms.

“The afflicted party wishes to remain anonymous.” Clicking his pen, the officer looked back up at Imelda. “Now, regarding the damages...”

While Imelda talked with the officer about working out a payment, Rosita looked back to Julio, Coco, and Héctor. Coco was leaning into her papá, wrapping her arm around him, while Julio whispered something to him. She had to admit, she didn’t expect to see Julio talking with Héctor much, given how uneasy he’d been around his father-in-law these past couple months, but she wasn’t going to complain.

“Papá, can you hear me?” Coco asked, and Héctor gave a short nod. “Are you worried about Dante?”

Héctor nodded again, shutting his eyes.

“I think he’ll be all right.” Rosita patted Héctor gently on the shoulder. “We’ll just have to find him and keep an eye on him for a while. Oh, poor Miguelito, though...” The thought of him not being able to see his pet for a week, without knowing where he was, and without being able to send messages back to them, was an upsetting one.

“Don’t worry about it, though, Héctor,” Julio said quickly, and Héctor looked up at him. “We’ll take care of this stuff with Dante. You... you need to just focus on your statement.”

“He’s right,” Coco affirmed. “We’ll figure out what happened with Dante. I’m sure he’s fine.”

Héctor gave Coco a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes, giving Rosita the feeling that he didn’t quite believe them.

Even so, Rosita nodded. “Dante will be all right, Papá Héctor. You just worry about yourself right now.”

_Gracias_ , he mouthed in response, looking down at the floor.

It was several more minutes as Imelda worked out more details with the police officer,  but eventually she finished. The officer left the _hacienda_ , Pepita growling at him the entire way, and Imelda turned around to face the others once more. “Well, you heard what he said. If we find Dante, he has to stay on our property for a week. I want you all to keep an eye out for him wherever you go, and bring him home as soon as you find him.”

“ _Sí_ , Mamá Imelda,” Victoria said quietly, still staring out after the police officer.

“As for us...” Imelda approached Héctor, laying a gentle but firm hand on his shoulder. “We do need to get going. Are you ready, Héctor?”

Shuddering, Héctor looked up at her and waved his one good hand in an uncertain gesture, giving a shaky grin.

“Well, you won’t feel any more ready if we waste time around here.” Reaching down, she helped Héctor up, letting him lean on her as he limped toward the door.

“Good luck, Papá Héctor!” Rosita called after him. “You’ll be fine! Just tell them what you need to and you’ll be home before you know it.”

Héctor swallowed and tried to give her a smile, and finally they were gone, Imelda shutting the door behind them. Shortly after, they could hear Pepita taking to the skies.

Looking out the window, Rosita watched them leave, finding herself heaving a deep sigh. She wasn’t one to worry often, but when she did, she didn’t like her worries to be _right_.

She hoped both Dante and Papá Héctor would return home soon.

 

* * *

 

 

Imelda led Héctor toward Pepita, and the _alebrije_ gave a soft, short purr, stepping closer to them. Héctor took an uncertain step back, but Pepita lowered her head and lightly touched the top of her head against Héctor’s side—a much more gentle version of her usual affectionate headbutt.

When Héctor only blinked in bewilderment, Imelda rubbed his arm. “She likes you,” she said, and helped him onto the _alebrije’s_ back.

However, in spite of Pepita’s friendly behavior, Rosita had not been wrong about her. Not entirely wrong, anyway. Imelda could feel the tension in the _alebrije’s_ muscles, and even the vibration of a soft, inaudible growl from within her chest. Pepita was more than tense—she was angry. It may have had something to do with the police officer, or something to do with Dante, but unfortunately she had no way of knowing for sure.

Perhaps they could go looking for Dante later on, but this needed to be taken care of first. Making sure she had a good grip on Héctor, Imelda nudged Pepita’s sides with her heels. “We’re going to the police station, Pepita,” she said, and the cat’s muscles coiled beneath her just before she sprung into the air.

Héctor tensed up, gripping a clump of Pepita’s fur with his good hand and ducking his head, and Imelda carefully tightened her grip around him. “I’ve got you, don’t worry,” she called above the wind as they flew.

Even without everything that had just happened with the police officer, the morning had been... strange. She’d woken up and immediately confronted Héctor, who had looked like he’d maybe gotten an hour or so of sleep, if that. When she’d announced that they would be going to the police station this morning, he had been surprisingly compliant, in spite of how stubborn he’d been the day prior. Part of her found it strange, but the other part of her chalked it up to his insomnia and exhaustion making it hard for him to keep fighting.

Hopefully it would be done with after this, and he could finally get some rest.

“Do you know what you’re going to write?” Imelda asked, and Héctor turned his head toward her, more to acknowledge her than to actually look at her. After a moment, he shook his head and lowered it. “You’ll just need to figure it out when we get there. Anything you can tell them will help.”

Héctor wheezed out a sigh, which she felt more than heard. She tried to understand why he was so hesitant to tell them—perhaps it was like how she had avoided music for so long, since it brought her so much pain. But while this would bring him pain, ultimately it would help him, wouldn’t it?

_This will be good for him,_ she told herself, subconsciously pulling him a little closer. _The sooner he gets this out of the way, the better._

Pepita’s wings shifted, and they began their descent.

 

* * *

 

 

“It doesn’t make _any_ sense,” Óscar grumbled, sketching furiously into the book he held. “Dante is hardly violent!”

“Aside from that time he knocked the head off a security guard,” Felipe countered, snatching the sketchbook away and leaving his brother to attempt to draw on thin air for a moment. Frowning at the page, he began to make some of his own adjustments. “No, no, that’s too big, try...”

“He was protecting Miguel, that doesn’t count! And it’s not too big, what are you... oh...”

Coco shook her head at her _tíos_ , turning instead to Julio, who appeared deep in thought. He’d woken up quite tired that morning, but insisted on getting up regardless. She got the feeling he hadn’t had a full night’s sleep, but there were more important matters at hand. “I still can’t believe Dante would do something like that,” she said, and her husband looked up. “Even when Dante caused trouble in the living world, he never hurt anyone. I remember.”

“And he was acting just fine last night,” Julio said, fiddling with his hat. “I wonder...” And he trailed off, rubbing his head in thought.

“Wonder what?” Coco prodded.  ”Do you think he had a reason for attacking a stranger?”

“Assuming he attacked them at all.” Frowning, Victoria kept her gaze out the window. “I wouldn’t be surprised if it was a disgruntled fan of his, trying to knock us down a few pegs.”

“I don’t know, _mija_ ,” Julio said, crossing his arms. “Stealing a collar from an _alebrije_ so they can frame him seems, uh... farfetched. I’m wondering if... if he found something.”

Heart leaping, Coco straightened. “You mean with what happened to Papá?”

All eyes in the room turned to Julio, who gave a nervous laugh, ducking partially into his rib cage. “I mean... maybe. Dante _is_ an _alebrije_... Don’t you think he would understand what’s going on?”

Turning to face her father, Victoria gave him a deadpan look. “Yesterday he flew into a wall trying to reach a door that was in the opposite direction. I don’t think he has enough brain cells to understand something is wrong.”

“I don’t think you’re giving him enough credit, _mija_ ,” Coco said. “Your papá is right—Dante _is_ an _alebrije_.”

With an annoyed hum, Victoria looked out the window again, rubbing her wrist in irritation. It was a gesture that Coco caught immediately, as did Julio. The two exchanged glances before Coco placed her hand on her daughter’s back. “Why don’t we sit in the living room?”

Keeping silent, Victoria complied, following the two into the living room. Julio and Coco sat on the couch, while Victoria remained standing, still holding her arm and not looking at either of the two. When she didn’t talk, Julio was the one to speak up. “ _¿Qué pasa, mija?_ ”

“We know it’s not about the dog,” Coco added, and Victoria’s frown deepened.

“It’s nothing important,” Victoria grumbled, gazing out the window again.

“You’re never this distracted unless something is bothering you.” Julio patted the seat next to him, knowing it was a futile effort. “Can you tell us what’s wrong?”

When Victoria didn’t immediately answer, Coco had to hold out a hand to keep Julio from standing up and approaching her. Victoria would talk when she was ready.

Sure enough, Victoria stamped her foot, glaring up at the sky through the window. “I don’t understand the point of taking _him_ to the police when we know he won’t talk. All he’s ever going to do is dodge the point!”

Coco’s brows rose in surprise—she hadn’t expected that. “He’s been through a lot, _mija_. You can’t blame him for not wanting to tell us all the details.”

“But it’s not _us_ he has to tell them to. It’s the police! And if he hasn’t said anything to us, how do we know he’ll say anything to _them_?”

“Well... we don’t,” Julio admitted, pulling off his hat and tugging on the brim of it. “But he could always surprise us.”

“I doubt it, especially if the police actually say anything to...” Victoria trailed off, then shook herself. “It just seems like a waste of time, and unnecessary stress on Mamá Imelda.”

Chuckling, Coco shook her head. “It would be unnecessary stress on Mamá if Papá did _not_ go to the police. You know she’s been prodding him about getting his statement out.”

“Well, it’s...” Now looking down at the floor, Victoria sighed. “It’s unnecessary stress on _him_ , too.”

Julio raised his brows and glanced at Coco, who returned the look.

Seeming to catch her parent’s expressions, Victoria went on: “And if _he_ is stressed out, it’ll be awful for the rest of us.”

Though she tried to cover for it, Coco knew what her daughter was really saying. “ _Mija_ ,” she said softly, beckoning her daughter closer. But Victoria remained stubborn, arms crossed tightly and head turned away, so she went on: “You’re allowed to be worried for Papá Héctor.”

“I’m not worried about him. I’m worried he’s going to cause more trouble for this family than he already has, that’s all.”

Coco gave her a knowing smile. “Of course, _mija_.”

“That _perro_ isn’t much better,” Victoria went on. “It has to be one thing after another, doesn’t it?”

“That’s another thing,” Julio said, returning his hat to his head and staring down at the floor in concentration. “We don’t know they aren’t unrelated. Dante... perhaps he knows something we don’t. Maybe the person he tried to attack is...” He hesitated, tugging his hat down further. “...the one who attacked Héctor.”

Sensing something was wrong, Coco looked at her husband in concern. But he only glanced up at her briefly before reaching over and squeezing her hand— _I can’t talk about it right now._

“Even if it isn’t, I’d like to know who it is.” Victoria was once more looking out the window. “I’m rather tired of people making things difficult for our family.”

“The police said the person wished to remain anonymous,” Coco pointed out, rubbing her thumb over Julio’s hand.

“It is strange, though,” Julio said. The other two waited for him to go on, but he remained quiet, squeezing Coco’s hand again.

Something was bothering him, and Coco was absolutely certain it wasn’t the news about Dante, or even Papá going to give his statement. She would have to resist trying to pry it out of him, at least for the time being—like Victoria, he would speak when he was ready. Usually.

“I’m going to go find him!” Rosita’s voice snapped them out if their thoughts, and Julio hopped out of his seat and rushed over to her.

“No, no, _hermana_ , stay here for now,” he said as Coco and Victoria followed him back into the dining room. “Let’s... uh, we should wait until Mamá Imelda and Héctor get back.”

“Papá is right,” Victoria said with a nod. “They may come back with Dante, for all we know.”

“And perhaps they’ll return with news as well,” Coco agreed. “Let’s wait for now.”

Rosita sighed, wringing her hands. “I... I suppose you’re right. I just hope _pobrecito_ Dante is okay.”

“And Papá.” Coco rubbed her wrist as she thought it over. “I hope he’ll be all right.”

“I’m sure he will be, _mi amor_ ,” Julio said quietly, taking her hand again. His expression told her he was less sure of himself than his words made him sound. “We’ll... just have to wait.”

“You can do what you like,” Victoria said, sighing as she moved toward the back of the house, toward door to the veranda. “I’m going to get some fresh air.”

“It’s not fresh—”

“—in the Land of the Dead,” the twins said, still poring over their sketchbook, resulting in an annoyed “ugh” from the back of the house, followed by the creak of an opening door.

“Should we join her?” Julio asked, and Coco glanced around the room. The twins were still focused on their sketchbook, ignoring the mess of the abandoned breakfast at the table, and Rosita was staring out the window, looking out into the yard as though she expected Dante to come scampering in at any moment.

Victoria probably needed time to herself right now, but Coco knew her sister-in-law wouldn’t do well if she was left to fret over the missing dog. “Rosita,” she said instead, and her sister-in-law glanced back at her. “Would you like some help cleaning up?”

“Oh! Uh, _sí. Gracias_.”

With that, the three of them got to work on clearing the table, Rosita already looking more relaxed. Coco smiled for a moment, but looked back at Julio, finding her husband still appearing deep in thought. While it had been clear what was bothering both Victoria and Rosita, Julio was mystifying Coco right now. Part of her wanted to question him about it immediately, but not while they were helping Rosita. Even so...

When Julio moved to bring a stack of plates into the kitchen, Coco leaned in close to him. “Is it bothering you that badly?” she whispered, and he froze. “You can talk to me, _mi amor_.”

Julio grimaced, shaking his head. “L-later,” he whispered back. “I promise I’ll tell you later.”

Nodding, Coco backed away. “Later” could mean after they were done cleaning, or after they heard back from Mamá and Papá.

But if it had anything to do with any of this mess going on—and she was sure it did—”later” was going to be before tonight. She would make sure of that.

 

* * *

 

 

The police station loomed in front of them, and his every instinct was screaming for him to get away.

He’d been here before—many, many times before—back when he was still working on his schemes to cross the bridge. More than a few times he’d even been held in a cell (sixty-three times, in fact, if he’d kept his tally marks accurate) for his escapades, including incidents that had nothing to do with _Dia de Muertos_.

The police were familiar with him. He was familiar with them. The building was familiar. The one cell he’d been held in was familiar. After the first few times, it had ceased being scary.

Until now, when it was suddenly the most terrifying thing he could think of.

Héctor’s legs quit working, his knees locking shortly after Imelda helped him dismount from Pepita. The sudden stop caused Imelda, who had been at his side and helping him walk, to stumble, which subsequently nearly knocked him over.

“Héctor,” she said firmly, without looking back, and his legs moved mechanically, forcing him closer to the last place he wanted to be right now.

_I can’t do this,_ he thought, swallowing as Imelda helped him limp up the steps. Her touch was the only thing that kept him from completely shutting down.

_I can’t be here._ Yet here he was, being led into the lobby and up to the front desk. He could feel the stares of people on him and lowered his head, not wanting the woman behind the counter to look him in the eye. Was she one of the people in contact with...?

He felt a sick twist in his gut at the thought that Imelda could unknowingly be conversing with one of Ernesto’s friends—one of the people just waiting for him to slip up and say the wrong thing. Or write the wrong thing—whatever they expected him to do.

Maybe they wouldn’t expect him to do anything. Maybe they would see he was in no state to talk (given he literally couldn’t), no state to even discuss nonverbally what had happened to him. They could send him home, and then he could just... never go back. That would be fine with him.

“All right,” the woman behind the counter said, and Héctor blinked, suddenly realizing that she had been talking to Imelda. “I’ll let Officer Heraldez know you’re here, and your husband can give his statement to him.”

A weight sunk deep into Héctor’s middle, and it took all of his strength to remain standing upright. Imelda kept a grip on him, however, and squeezed his shoulder gently. “You can do this, Héctor, and then we can leave. You won’t have to come back.”

_Maybe I’ll have to come back... in pieces, when they have to identify what’s left of me after Ernesto’s goons catch me again,_ Héctor thought. His chest heaved in a pained, suppressed laugh, before he instinctively reached out to grab at his bandaged throat at the sudden, stabbing ache it caused his vertebrae. But his arm was already held back-- _by a hand, they were holding him down, he couldn’t even grab at the man to stop the knife—_

Imelda squeezed his right arm gently, and he gave a short gasp as he found himself back at the police station. She gave him a questioning look, and he glanced away.

What had he been… oh, right. _Yeah, I’ll definitely come back here in pieces,_ he thought, a grim smile crossing his features, right before a darker voice within him added: _Or to identify the pieces of whatever is left of—_

His entire body shook audibly in an attempt to banish the thought, but it still hung there, in the back of his mind. _That’s what’ll happen if you mess this up,_ amigo _. So_ don’t _._

Before he knew it, Imelda was helping him out of the lobby and into another room, where they sat at a desk across from two police officers. The familiar situation clicked, and he looked from one officer to the other. Heraldez—he knew that one. Heraldez had arrested him three years ago, after his attempt at using a femur bone (that he may or may not have gotten permission to borrow) as bait for an _alebrije_ (that he also may or may not have gotten permission to borrow) that he attempted to ride across the bridge. It wasn’t his best plan, and Heraldez hadn’t exactly been impressed either. He wasn’t the worst officer Héctor had known, at least. As for the female officer next to Heraldez, her name was... Ade... Adelita? Yes, he remembered her from when he’d accidentally crashed on top of another skeleton when jumping off a roof—purely accidental, but the poor man he’d fallen onto had thought he was being attacked. Not one of his proudest moments.

He almost greeted them by name on reflex, but caught himself before he hurt his throat.

...Oh. Right. That’s why he was here.

 “We meet again, Señor Rivera.” Officer Heraldez gave him a nod. “So you’re here to tell us what happened?”

“He is, yes,” Imelda said, frowning. “But as you can see, he is unable to talk at the moment.”

Adelita glanced at her partner. “Should... this be postponed?” she asked, and Héctor perked up, hope fluttering in his aching chest.

“If he’s able to write, that should do well enough,” Heraldez answered, pulling out a notebook and a pen and sliding it across the desk. Héctor’s heart promptly sank.

Adelita pulled out a notepad of her own, clicking her pen and preparing to write. Sitting on the table between the two officers was a file, which the female officer opened, looking over a few details. “Well, Señor Rivera, looks like you’re not on the criminal side of things for once.”

Héctor flinched, glancing back at Imelda, who didn’t seem amused by the statement. She didn’t exactly know about his criminal record—not all of it, anyway.

“You were assaulted two nights ago,” Adelita said, pointing to one line in the file. “Is that correct?”

Any comfort he had had at the familiarity of the situation melted away. They were starting already—?! No, no, he wasn’t ready yet, what was he supposed to say...?!

Ernesto’s words echoed in his mind: _If you decide that the media or police should know about this… perhaps I’ll have to see about getting a new pair of shoes for the interview, hm?_

No, no no no... He couldn’t do this.

He shouldn’t be here.

“Héctor?”

Imelda’s voice brought him back, and he shuddered. What had they asked, again?

“Señor Rivera, please answer the question. Is it true that you were assaulted two nights ago?”

Shuddering again, he gave the tiniest nod he could muster. That wouldn’t hurt, right? He was just confirming what they already knew. What was it Ernesto had told him... He’d said something about only saying what was “right?” So maybe he could tell them... some of it? So long as it didn’t incriminate Ernesto, maybe. That would have to be enough.

“What were you doing on that night?”

Héctor’s gaze fell on the pad and pen in front of him, and he reached out to it mechanically, his hand trembling as he wrote: _Visiting shanties._

His heart ached at the memory—a couple nights ago, he had been so happy just to be around his nearly-forgotten family. At the time, he’d only been thinking about how much he enjoyed their company, and how he also needed to get home to his other family, right before...

When the pad was passed back to the officers, they both looked it over. “‘Visiting shanties.’ You were visiting the nearly-forgotten?” Heraldez asked. When Héctor gave a short nod, the officer passed the notepad back and regarded him evenly. “Were you alone when you were attacked?”

Immediately his mind went back to the alley he’d cut through, where he’d tripped over some garbage. There had been the huge pile there, and... and then...

“Señor Rivera?”

With a short gasp, he nodded quickly, and tugged on his hat with his free hand. _Just answer the questions,_ he begged himself. _Just answer the questions and don’t think about it,_ por favor. _All you need to do is answer the questions._

“Did you see your attackers at all?”

_He saw the outstretched hand, which he readily took, and seconds later found himself face-to-face with the stark white features of the man who had murdered him._

Another shudder rippled through his bones, and he shook his head.

Adelita scratched something into her notebook while Heraldez gazed at him. “Can you remember anything about your attackers?”

_He could remember that there were three of them, that Ernesto had been dressed in that dark trench coat, his bones were still far too white, he didn’t have any signs of any previous injuries, and two of his stupid bodyguards were there, dressed in dark sweaters, wearing sunglasses that obscured their eyes..._

Héctor’s non-existent stomach twisted, and he shook his head. He was certain Imelda was staring at him, but he didn’t want to look over to see what sort of expression she had.

“You’re certain that your attackers are no one that you _personally_ know?”

_Once again Ernesto’s face flashed through his mind, with that strange expression, one he wondered if he’d seen in life._

Hearing Imelda shift in her seat, he glanced over at her, surprised to see her glaring... at the officers? Quickly he stole a glance at them, finding that Officer Heraldez was looking at her. Perhaps Imelda thought they were being too harsh.

Regardless, he nodded, his skull aching from the weight of the unspoken lie.

“What happened when you were initially attacked?”

_Ernesto caught him off-guard and he tried to get away by leaving his arm behind which was such a stupid idea, that was how Ernesto caught his hand in the first place, and he tried to pull his bones back but Ernesto stepped on his arm and squeezed his hand until it hurt and—_

Biting his lip, Héctor scrawled onto the paper: _Jumped me in the dark._

“And how did you lose your hand?”

_Ernesto took his hand into the building and beckoned him to come in. When he refused..._

Pain lanced through his missing hand, and he gasped, pulling his right wrist closer to his chest and gripping it protectively. Was that... was that real? Had that really just happened? Or...

“ _¿Estás bien?_ ” Imelda asked, placing a hand on his left arm.

While Héctor appreciated the gesture, his eyes fell on the police officers, who exchanged looks he couldn’t read. Did they need to know what was done? Did Imelda? Did they need to know about... about... _about the pain that spiked through his absent hand, the banging and snapping and the agony that consumed him until he lost consciousness, but even then it hurt, it_ hurt _...!_

“Señor Rivera, if this is too distressing to discuss, you can talk to us at a later time,” Adelita said, her concerned voice cutting through the memory.

He wanted to nod yes. He wanted to run out of that room and never come back. He...

Turning to Imelda, he found her looking back at him with a stern expression. Except it wasn’t truly stern—he could see it in the slight crease in her brows, in the way she held herself, that she was worried. Worried for _him_.

Some part of him wanted to tell her the truth, wanted to tell her what had really happened, wanted to stop hiding. But the rest of him knew he couldn’t. If he gave any incriminating evidence against Ernesto, then Ernesto would act. And even if he didn’t... how much did Imelda need to know? How much was it _fair_ for her to know? She didn’t need to be worried over him. She didn’t need to be more distressed than she already was... or more angry. Would she be angry, if she knew everything that happened? Would she—

Imelda’s grip tightened into a gentle squeeze.

_You know I’m on your side, ¿sí?_

Héctor exhaled shakily, looking from her to the notepad. Finally he reached out, scratching into it quickly: _They stole hand, broke it._

Next to him, Imelda drew in a sharp intake of air, and he shut his eyes, leaning back against his seat. Her hand moved away from his arm, and he heard her hissing a few curses under her breath. The officers, meanwhile, remained silent, and all at once he felt overcome with panic—had that been too much to tell them? Were they going to report to Ernesto that he’d said too much?

When he opened his eyes, he found Heraldez holding the notepad and looking at his partner, the both of them exchanging looks he couldn’t understand. He had to get out of here, he had to get out—

Heraldez slid the notebook across the table again. “Was that the only injury you sustained?”

“Of course it wasn’t—look at him!” Imelda snapped. She may have shouted something else, but it sounded like she’d moved into another room, or he’d moved into another room and _they were holding him down, even as he fought to get away, and there was the hammer coming down on his rib cage, and the knife digging into his throat, and he couldn’t breathe, it hurt, he was going to suffocate, he couldn’t breathe, the knife was stuck—_

Distantly someone called for him, and someone grabbed his hand, and he frantically pulled away before striking his fist at his attacker, pushing himself back with his feet— _get away get away get away don’t do this to me again get away—_

The world tipped, and something jarred his spine. For a brief moment he couldn’t distinguish up from down before he realized he was staring at the ceiling—not the dark ceiling of the abandoned building he’d been lured into, but the white ceiling of a well-lit room at the police station.

...Oh.

“Héctor? Can you hear me?” Even in his dazed state, he could hear the barely-concealed fear in Imelda’s voice—she was wincing as she knelt next to him, one hand reaching out, but not touching him, while the other was placed on her own cheek. Why was she doing that, though? She looked like someone had...

...oh _no_.

He tried to scramble upright, but realized he was still in his chair—he’d knocked it backward. Seeing this, Imelda grabbed the side of the chair with both hands, easing it upright, and Héctor with it. With her hand off of her face, he didn’t see anything out of the ordinary, but he knew—if she’d had flesh instead of just bone, there would have been a mark. Quickly he looked away, not wanting to meet her gaze, or that of the police officers. He needed to say something to her, if he could, but not here—he didn’t want to do anything around these police officers. He didn’t want to be around them anymore—he wanted out of this place.

“Señora Rivera,” Heraldez said at length, “I understand that time is of the essence, but I do not believe your husband is in any state to give us any further information.”

_I’m right here,_ he thought bitterly as he glanced up at them. They were both looking at her, avoiding his gaze. Were they ignoring him? Or could they not meet his gaze for guilt...?

Imelda’s hand was suddenly at his back, and he drew in a short breath as she answered, “I understand.”

“If he recalls anything else, please let us know immediately.” Adelita slid a card over to Imelda. “Until then, he should stay at home and recover.”

Héctor almost nodded sharply to indicate that he was listening and that he could answer for himself, but he resisted the urge partly to spare his injured neck, and partly because he felt very, very drained.

“We’ll call you if we have any updates on the situation,” Heraldez added.

“ _Sí,_ ” Imelda said stiffly. “I understand.”

She was angry, Héctor realized, and barely containing it. Sickness churned within his rib cage at the thought, but he would just have to deal with it—the only other option was telling her what he really _did_ know, thus endangering her and the rest of the family.

Slowly she stood, and he winced as she helped him to his feet. Once again she wrapped her arm around his shoulders, and he did the same as she aided him in limping out of the room, down the hallway, out of the station. All the while, Héctor tried to think of what he could possibly do to apologize for the absolute mess he had caused back there, and... His eyes flicked over to her cheekbone, and he felt sick as he wondered how hard he had struck it.

They stepped out the door. Pepita was still outside, her tail lashing irritably, but she perked up upon seeing them, ears twitching forward.

They were alone, aside from the _alebrije_. When Imelda took her arm off of him in order to help him mount Pepita, he turned to face her, hesitantly reaching out for her face, where he’d hit her. He had to say something—it would hurt, but he had to say it: “ _L-lo... s..._ ”

“No,” she said, her voice heavy with sorrow, and gently pushed his hand back down. “I’m sorry I brought you here, Héctor. I didn’t think that...” She stopped herself, her shoulders drooping.

_You didn’t know,_ he wanted to say, but he _had_ told her. He’d told her how he didn’t want to go through with this, even though he hadn’t said why. She’d known how uneasy he was about everything going on, yet she’d still pushed him to go through with this.

“I won’t give up,” Imelda went on, straightening again. “We will get your hand back, but I won’t force you to do something that will hurt you.”

While part of him wished that she’d determined that earlier, he found himself giving a faint smile before mouthing the word _gracias_.

Pepita scratched at the ground beneath her claws, her tail swishing. Sighing, Imelda turned to her alebrije, placing a hand on her, before turning back to Héctor. “Are you ready to head back?”

He nodded, and she helped him up onto Pepita once more.

It had been a terrible experience overall, but at least it was over... though he hoped he hadn’t said too much. As Pepita took off, fear bolted down his spine—his family could be in danger. For a moment he considered talking to Imelda about it, but he wasn’t sure how to communicate it to her, or what he could even say. Not to mention, he couldn’t do much while sitting on the back of a flying _alebrije_. He’d have to discuss it with her when they got back... somehow.

 

* * *

 

 

No one had followed her out back. Good.

Slowly shutting the side gate behind her, Victoria crept around the edge of the house, constantly keeping an eye on it to make sure no one glanced out the window and saw her. She knew her papá had said to make sure no one left to search for Dante until Mamá Imelda returned, since she could very well come back with Dante. So it was a good thing that Victoria wasn’t leaving to search for the dog, and if all went well, she could slip out and be back before anyone noticed she was gone.

Even if they noticed her absence, though, she couldn’t really bring herself to care, so long as they noticed it once she was far enough away. They’d have little to complain about once she got to the bottom of this mess with Dante. The incident surely wouldn’t have gone unnoticed, if there really _was_ an attack that ended with an _alebrije_ jumping out a window. Word would certainly travel about it, and she was going to figure out what she could.

Victoria was done with anyone messing with her _familia_.


	17. Instinct

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Victoria unintentionally helps someone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hiya folks! Okay I'm sorry this took a while to update (yet again) but things've been a tad hectic IRL for me. (Stuff happening like... y'know... my basement flooding.) BUT we're getting close to the end! I can't say for sure how many chapters are left (3-4, maybe? though I last guesstimated that like three chapters ago...), but we're getting close.
> 
> Thanks to TomatoSoupful, PaperGardener, and Jaywings for beta reading this for me! 
> 
> OH! Before I forget (because I've been forgetting this one for a while), I got [more giftart](http://babycharmander.tumblr.com/post/177493618755/hes-a-good-boy-this-fanfic-is-seriously-super) from Judgechaos on Tumblr! It's a scene from Chapter 13 and it's very sweet. 
> 
> I should mention--I've also been [sketching a bit myself](https://bcdrawsandwrites.tumblr.com/post/182670613428/please-reblog-dont-repost-some-sloppy)... This stuff won't happen for a few chapters yet, though.
> 
> One final note: reminder that I am totally cool with constructive criticism! Typos, mangled Spanish, bad characterization, whatever--if you see an area you think I can improve in, feel free to let me know.
> 
> OKAY! Let's get on with this. Enjoy!

Pepita felt a crackling through her fur and feathers, irritating them even as she flew through the air. This was not new. She’d been feeling it all morning, knowing that _something_ was going to go wrong. She had slept little, keeping watch over the house all night long, making sure no one dared approach it. While her instincts were sharp, they were not always _specific_ , and she was not entirely sure what to watch out for, especially since she did not have the scents of the bad man’s pack fresh in her memory.

But even though the general anxiety was not new, the feeling she had _was_ —something was wrong. She did not know what, exactly, but it had something to do with Imelda’s litter, and she was not going to let it slide. Tipping her wings, Pepita turned down toward a different tower from the one her territory was in.

“Pepita!” Imelda cried over the wind, her heels digging into Pepita’s sides. “We’re heading home! We can search for Dante later.”

_You will not find him here,_ gatita _,_ Pepita thought with a quick glance over her shoulder, but turned her wings back toward the house, fighting to ignore the crackle of anxiety. It was true that Imelda’s mate needed to rest in the relative safety of their territory, and perhaps by checking there first, she could more easily pinpoint what was amiss.

She would have to hurry, though. Something was wrong, and she did not want to wait for that _something_ to come to her.

 

* * *

 

In spite of how incredibly vast the Land of the Dead was, news traveled exceptionally fast.

Unfortunately, “fast” did not always mean “accurate.”

“ _Sí_ , _señora_ , I heard it was as big as a horse!” one vendor said over the sizzling of the food he was cooking.

“It broke down the door and took down four men! Who let that thing run loose?” muttered a wood carver as she chipped away at a hand-carved _alebrije_ figure in the shape of a bat.

“So my friend said that—this is true, she works in the apartment!—that the _alebrije_ could change in size, and that’s how it got in,” one merchant said as he cleaned his shop window. “I swear! She’s not a liar.”

Victoria lifted up her glasses to pinch the bridge of her nose, shutting her eyes against the headache forming at the front of her skull. This wasn’t going exactly how she’d expected it to, as she’d headed into the marketplace to hunt down more information on the supposed _alebrije_ attack. She’d already had one false lead so far, and that was enough of a pain having to find the apartment and ask around there, only to find it was the wrong place. And this account, in spite of the inaccuracy, was the best lead she had so far, unfortunately. “ _Sí_ , that’s quite interesting. Which apartment is that, anyway?” she asked, looking back at the vendor again.

“Oh, it’s ah, out in the tower west—no, southwest?—of this one, it’s uh...” The vendor moved to scratch his head, only to wind up scrubbing his washcloth over his wig and getting soap in his hair. With a frustrated grunt, he tossed the cloth back into its bucket and leaned into the shop. “ _¡Abuelita!_ Where’s the apartment Martha works in, again?”

The woman inside the shop shouted the address back at her grandson, who turned around and repeated it back to Victoria. In turn, Victoria pulled a notepad and pen out of her apron (usually reserved for quickly jotting down orders) and wrote the address down, hoping that perhaps this would be the _right_ one this time.

“If you see Martha there, tell her I said _hola_!”

“Of course.”

One relatively short gondola ride and a quick trolley stop later, Victoria arrived at the apartment matching the address she’d been given. It wasn’t a particularly impressive-looking one (it _was_ tall, but then, so was any given building in the Land of the Dead), but maybe...

Adjusting her glasses, Victoria decided to walk around the perimeter of the building first, gazing up at the windows. There was nothing she could see at the front of the building, nor around the side (though it was harder to look in the alley). But when she reached the back, she paused, noting that one of the higher up windows near the top was not properly reflecting the sky, as though it were broken.

Feeling a thrill in her chest, Victoria hurried back to the front of the building. This had to be it—she was _finally_ getting somewhere. She couldn’t make herself too obvious, though, and stepped into the lobby, trying to read the atmosphere. To her surprise, there didn’t appear to be any police around (either they’d finished their investigation already, or they hadn’t investigated at all), but there was an intense conversation at the front desk.

“...and when I first moved here, I was told _no alebrijes_.” The skeleton, an older man with a stooped back, roughly tapped his finger against the counter twice for emphasis. “That was the rule! _No alebrijes_! That’s _why_ I moved here! And you’re telling me some dumb _perro_ got in here and wreaked havoc?!”

The young man at the desk, who must have been about nineteen when he died, looked understandably terrified. “I-I’m sorry, _señor_ , this isn’t something that normally happens—”

“Normally?!”

“I-I mean, it almost never happens! We really _don’t_ allow _alebrijes_ here, and we’re not sure how the one got in—”

“Well you’d better find out! I am _allergic_ , do you understand? You put me on the top floor of this stupid place to keep me as far away from those things as possible, and I find out there’s some—some _animal_ breaking into here, just _two_ floors below me, and—?!”

Ah, good, this was working out well. With the man at the desk distracted, Victoria hurried out of the lobby and down the hall to the stairwell. She wasn’t keen on potentially getting stuck in an elevator—they hadn’t exactly reached a point of being reliable in the Land of the Dead—and taking the stairs would give her time to think.

This might not be the safest idea, part of her realized, but she buried that fear as quickly as she could. She didn’t know just _whom_ Dante had attacked (if anyone at all)—it could have been a harmless bystander, or it could have been Ernesto de la Cruz himself, for all she knew. If it was the latter, or anyone associated with him, she could possibly be putting herself in danger... especially given what that man had done to Héctor.

She felt a sick twist where her gut used to be, but shook it off. She was _not_ Héctor—she was a remembered skeleton, not nearly-forgotten as he had been, and she bore no injuries to her bones. On _Dia de Muertos_ she’d handled herself perfectly fine against Ernesto’s lackeys, who hadn’t been expecting her to be as strong as she was.

And she _could_ be strong when she needed to be. She’d defended her little sister against bullies more than a few times when she was alive, until Elena was old enough to fight for herself. It didn’t take long for even the men of Santa Cecilia to realize it wasn’t wise to cross her. She’d defended herself then, and she could do it again now, if need be.

Victoria would always fight if she had to protect her family.

And, stupid as the _alebrije_ was, Dante was _technically_ family. What hurt him hurt the rest of them too, especially Miguel. And if her Papá was right, and this _did_ have to do with Héctor, well... She was going to make sure this was where it stopped. Héctor had gone thr—

She shook herself. The trouble Héctor had gotten into was hard enough on everyone, and she wasn’t keen on seeing things get worse. Not to mention, whomever Dante attacked (if that was indeed what happened) couldn’t be guiltless.

_It’s about the family, not about_ him.

Mija, y _ou’re allowed to be worried for Papá Héctor._

_I don’t_ care _about him._

With a start, Victoria realized she’d run out of stairs to mount, being faced with a door to the roof. Huffing out a sigh, she turned around, counting two floors down from the top, and opened the door to the hallways. With no small amount of frustration she realized she hadn’t noted _where_ the broken window was, exactly, other than that it was near the top of the building, so she had no idea which suite it was in. This was getting to be a ridiculous endeavor, but she’d come too far to back out now.

No one was in the halls at the moment, so she stood by each door, listening intently. In one room she heard a television; in another, obnoxious music; in yet another, a loud argument. Hearing another door open elsewhere, she casually leaned against the wall, pulling a pocket watch out of her apron as though checking the time. A skeleton glanced at her as he passed, but otherwise left her alone. As soon as he turned a corner, Victoria put the watch away and resumed her mission.

Just as things seemed hopeless, she heard a sound that made her stiffen: harsh wind whistling through an open window.

Or, perhaps, a broken one.

If it was the wrong door, she’d simply ask the occupant which one was the correct one. Swallowing back any nervousness, she raised her hand, and knocked.

There was no immediate response, but as Victoria waited, she eventually heard footsteps heading toward the door, followed by metallic jingling and clicking. The door pulled open slightly, prevented from opening any further by a chain lock, and an unfamiliar skeleton peered out at her. He was about her height, but bulkier, wearing a short brown wig and a dull jacket. “Can I help you?” he asked, sounding distinctly annoyed.

“ _Sí_ ,” she answered, trying to subtly peer past the skeleton, but his wide frame blocked any view of the room beyond. However, the sound of wind whistling behind him was more apparent now. “I’m here to ask you some questions about the _alebrije_ attack, if that’s all right.”

The man looked her up and down before shutting the door. With a few more metallic clicks, it was opened.

“Glad someone’s checking in on this,” the man grumbled as he stepped back, allowing her to enter. “The police have been useless. Haven’t caught the _perro_.”

Victoria stepped in, but stayed just inside the doorway. It would be unwise to walk all the way in, in case things went south.

The apartment was, to put it simply, a mess. Paper and garbage littered the carpet, their source being an upturned trashcan in the corner. The couch, which bore a number of slash marks on it, had been tipped backward, one door was covered in scratches, and over in the adjoining kitchen, dog kibble was scattered across the floor. And of course, as she’d guessed earlier, the window had been smashed open, and there were rolls of duct tape and dense pieces of cardboard sitting nearby. There were also a couple other doors, probably to the bedroom and bathroom.

“You’re the domestic worker, right?” the man said, heading toward the window and gesturing at the supplies sitting by it. “I don’t want my window covered in cardboard forever, here.”

“ _Sí_ ,” Victoria lied with a calm nod. “I need a bit more information, though, first, so we can make sure this doesn’t happen again.”

“Well, come on, then,” he said, beckoning her inside.

Tensing, Victoria weighed her options before stepping further into the apartment and shutting the door behind her. If she kept close to it and he didn’t lock it, she should be all right. “It’s certainly a lot of damage,” she said, eying the slash marks in the couch. “Especially for a mid-sized dog.”

He frowned, clenching his fists. “ _Sí_. I was _attacked_ ,” the man said stiffly. “The dog barged into the room and assaulted me.”

“How did he get in?” she asked, trying to see if she could determine any other details. One thing she noticed was that, aside from some scattered objects, the apartment seemed... rather empty, as though someone had been in a hurry to leave. Yet the resident was still here, wasn’t he?

“Heard something at the door, thought it was an _amigo_ of mine. I wasn’t exactly expecting a rabid _alebrije_ to burst in.” He was looking at the couch now, and he stooped by the far side of it, grasping it to push it upright.

“Rabid,” Victoria repeated.

“Well, why else would it attack?” the man grunted as he strained to lift the couch. “Are you going to help or not?”

Frowning, Victoria took a quick glance back at the door before stepping up to the other side of the couch, aiding the man in lifting it.

With a bit of effort they managed to set it back upright, and the man rolled his shoulders. Then his brow furrowed, and he stooped down again, looking at something on the other side of the couch that Victoria couldn’t see. “You know, that’s funny,” he murmured.

Curious, Victoria stepped around the couch to see what he was staring at. “What is it?”

“Oh,” he began, and heaved a sigh. “Just that we never told anyone how big the _perro_ was, or what its gender was.”

Ice shot through Victoria’s marrow as he looked up at her, cocking a brow bone.

“And the thing is... the domestic worker left just before you came in, _Señora Rivera_.”

The man shot to his feet and moved to grab her, but Victoria was faster, whipping a pair of scissors out of her pocket and jabbing them roughly between the man’s carpals. She turned around only to balk at the sight of two other men, one of which had just latched the door. Both of them wore familiar-looking suits and sunglasses, and she grit her teeth at the realization.

“It _was_ you!” she snarled, glaring at them as she fought to keep her terror from showing. Internally she cursed herself for falling into such an obvious trap, but it wasn’t _supposed_ to go this badly. Her eyes flicked from the door to the men as she briefly considered whether or not she could get the chain lock unlatched quickly enough. Hearing a dull _thud_ behind her—the scissors hitting the carpet—she bolted forward, charging directly at one of the guards.

The man reached to grab her, only to cry out as she stamped her heel into the top of his foot. As he staggered back, Victoria reached for the lock, grasping the chain and frantically tugging it. But the simple action was harder than she’d expected with the panic and adrenaline surging through her, but she just had to—

The world spun, everything becoming dizzy and blurry. She blinked once, then again, before realizing that she’d lost her glasses. Her instinct was to hunt for them, but she fought against it, moving to give the chain another tug.

Strong hands seized her arms, and Victoria automatically reached back with her foot to stomp on her attacker’s shoes. This one kept them well out of reach, however, as he yanked her back away from the door. The other two men were immediately at either side of her, and horror nearly choked her as she realized she had no way to get herself out of this. Unless—

Her body stiffened before she willed it to fall apart, her bones coming loose from the startled man’s grasp. She wasn’t used to this at all—her _tios_ were always the ones who practiced taking themselves apart—but she willed herself back together as quickly as she could.

It wasn’t nearly as quickly as she would have liked. As she felt herself reconnecting, there were already hands on her legs, her arms, her back. By the time she thought to scream, she felt one of the hands move to her throat, while two others swiftly tied a gag around her mouth.

“ _Gracias_ , Señora Rivera,” the first man snarled just behind her.

Before she could turn to face him, a thick bag was shoved roughly over her head.

“You’ve made our job a lot easier.”

 

* * *

 

Dante awoke with a frantic howl.

[BAD!] he yelped, scrambling to his feet. [BAD—ow, ow, _ow_!] He lifted his foreleg, licking at the cuts that still marred it, and then sniffed around frantically. He was in a small space between a couple buildings, and he did not have wings. No, no, that was bad! He was on the wrong side! Bad things were going on on the _other_ side! He didn’t know what, but they were very, _very_ bad, and he needed to do something _right now_.

Fighting to ignore the pain in his body, he barrelled out of the alley and down the street. [PEPITA- _GATAAAA!_ ] he howled, though he had no idea where she was. [ _¡AYUDA!_ Bad things! The tall bone man! The tall bone lady! _¡Nuestra familia!_ BAD! IN TROUBLE!]

Many humans were staring at him as he scrambled out of the streets and into the graveyard, but he ignored them all, focusing on the edge of the wall that was fading to reveal a vast expanse of water, and a distant city with enormous towers.

[ _PEPITA-GATAAAA!_ ]


	18. The Truth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the crap hits the fan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Normally this is where I'd say something-or-other but I'm gonna be late to meet my family for something so I'll just say thanks to PaperGardener and Jaywings for beta reading and BYYYEEE.

Imelda stood by the window in the light of the afternoon sun, listening to the snores of Héctor on the couch behind her. It had taken a good deal of convincing to get him to even sit down, but once they’d gotten him situated, he was out like a light. Given how little he’d slept the past few nights, he certainly needed this.

Everyone had wanted to know how things had gone the second they’d stepped through the door, but she’d gotten them to hold off their questions until Héctor was asleep. She didn’t want a repeat of…

Wincing, she touched her fingertips to her cheek, where she’d been struck. It didn’t hurt anymore, but the pain she had felt was nothing compared to how much the action had shocked her. The last time she’d seen Héctor like that had been the morning after they’d found him, when she’d found him lying on the floor in his bedroom, trapped in a nightmare. At least, she’d _thought_ it had been a nightmare… until it happened again at the police station, when he was wide awake.

Imelda was not unfamiliar with the concept of flashbacks—there had been those in Santa Cecilia who had not escaped the revolution unscarred, back when she was alive. The wrong word or a sound that was a bit too close to the blast of a gun would plunge their minds back into the horrors of the past, and they would act accordingly. That had been alarming enough, but to see _Héctor_ like that, eyes open but not truly seeing, fighting against her as though she had been one of his attackers… It hurt worse than that strike to her face.

Truly it was no wonder he hadn’t wanted to go to the station. She just wished it hadn’t taken her until he’d snapped to realize it.

Behind her, Héctor snorted awake, scrambling to sit upright and only succeeding in tumbling off the couch completely. Sighing, Imelda turned to help him back up as he groaned and took stock of his surroundings. He gave her a sheepish smile before craning his neck and squinting, trying to see the clock.

“You’ve been out for a few hours,” she said, and he turned to her with a look of surprise that quickly morphed to guilt and worry. “Don’t. You needed it.”

Guiding him into the dining room, she prepared to sit him down at the table while she grabbed the lunch they’d set aside for him. But when she went to step away, he gripped her shoulder, shaking his head. When she gave him a questioning hum, he made a writing gesture with his hand, then fished his notebook out of his pouch. _need to talk,_ he wrote.

“About what?” she asked, eying him in concern. Was there something he hadn’t told her at the station?

Héctor hesitated, tapping his pen against the table and biting his lip.

“If it’s something about… what happened the other night,” she began carefully, “you can tell me.”

Unfortunately, that seemed to make him even more nervous. He rubbed his bad wrist for a moment before quickly writing: _worried_. He then yanked his hand away, as though he were afraid the paper would spontaneously combust.

Well, that wasn’t much of a surprise. After what he went through, and the fact that he was at risk of losing his hand, she was worried, herself. “What are you worried about specifically?”

His head jerked in a swallowing motion, and he winced, then wrote again: _family_.

That’s right—he had been afraid when they’d stepped into the house and didn’t see Victoria anywhere, though Coco had been quick to explain that she was taking some time to herself out on the back porch. Héctor had been relieved after hearing that. “Everyone’s fine, Héctor,” Imelda said, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Óscar and Felipe stepped into their room to work on something, Julio is taking a nap, and Coco and Rosita are out in the front yard to watch for Dante—oh. Is that who you’re worried about?”

That seemed to catch Héctor off-guard. He mulled it over for a moment before nodding.

“If that’s really what you’re worried about, we can go and search for him this evening.” She’d been planning on doing so anyway, since they needed to find Dante before he caused more trouble. “Though you should stay here and rest—”

Holding up his hand, he mouthed the word “no” before quickly scrawling: _I’ll go_

“Héctor, I think you’ve done enough. One of us will stay with you if you like, and—”

Shutting his eyes, he shook his head forcefully, then winced, rubbing his bandaged neck. He then looked back at his notepad and underlined the phrase he’d written.

If he was going to be _this_ stubborn, then… Imelda sighed. “All right, you can come with us. But I want you to eat first.”

One very quick meal later (Héctor couldn’t get much down), Imelda called the rest of the family into the dining room. Except there was one problem:

“Victoria’s gone!” Rosita cried, rushing back into the house. “She’s not out back at all!”

“So she sneaked out?” Coco frowned. “She probably left to look for Dante.”

Héctor and Julio exchanged worried glances, but Imelda waved them off. “That doesn’t matter, then, because we’ll be joining her. You remember what the police officer said—Dante needs to be quarantined, so the sooner we find him, the better. We’ll cover more ground if we split into groups.”

“I’m with Óscar!” “I’m with Felipe!” the twins said simultaneously, to the surprise of no one.

“I’ll go with Héctor,” Julio said, which _did_ surprise a few of them. Seeing the attention turned on him, Julio tugged on his hat. “Well… s-someone needs to?”

Coco stepped between her husband and father, taking the former’s hand and nodding up at the latter. “I’ll go with these two.”

Imelda nodded. “That leaves Rosita and I. We’ll take Pepita, and in an hour, rendezvous back at the front of the shop.” Waving Rosita over, she opened the door to the front yard. Not spotting her _alebrije_ anywhere nearby, she gave a shrill, loud whistle.

To her surprise, there was no response. Imelda waited a moment, wondering if perhaps Pepita was too far away for her to hear, and gave another whistle. But, again, there was no sign of the _alebrije_.

“Maybe she’s looking for Dante too?” Rosita suggested, and Imelda frowned. She hoped Rosita was right, but…

“Change of plan,” she said, turning back into the house. “Rosita and I will head out on foot, but we’re all still meeting back here in an hour. Let’s hurry.”

The three groups split up. Imelda and Rosita hurried closer to the edges of the towers, further into the business district, and Imelda kept her eyes turned upward, searching the skies for any signs of Dante or Pepita.

Two _alebrijes_ were now missing, which could only mean one thing:

Something was very, very wrong.

 

* * *

 

Having spent the past several decades separated from his wife, Julio would normally be quite happy to go anywhere with her. But for the first time in a great, long while, he wished Coco was not by his side.

It was nothing against her, but he really, really needed to talk to Héctor _alone_. Unfortunately, he got the feeling that was the exact reason Coco had decided to come with them.

“Dante!” she called as they turned down another street, and whistled sharply. But this street, like all the others, showed no sign of the winged dog. A creature resembling a gazelle did swivel its ears toward them, but that was all the attention it gave as it resumed walking alongside its own master on the opposite side of the street.

“The officer said it took place two towers away,” Julio pointed out. “Should we—?”

Coco shook her head. “Not if we still want to rendezvous with Mamá. The gondolas are always packed this time of day.”

There was a sharp breath of air behind them, and they whipped their heads around, wondering if Héctor had spotted one of the two missing _alebrijes_. Seeing nothing, they looked back to find him wilting, favoring his bad leg as his head drooped. Julio winced—he’d forgotten that Héctor was still dealing with a broken leg. Was he even supposed to be walking around like this?

“Here, Papá,” Coco said, reaching out her arm, and he gratefully wrapped his arm around her shoulders. It was awkward, given their height differences, but they managed.

“Perhaps we should turn around,” Julio noted. “You really should be resting, Héctor.”

Héctor only shook his head, grimacing, and looked Julio in the eyes.

Even if his father-in-law were physically able to speak at the moment, he wouldn’t have been able to say what he needed to. Instead, Julio tried to read what he could from Héctor’s gaze. Beyond the exhaustion, he could easily see the worry in those eyes—the terror of something unspeakable happening.

_Who did they threaten to hurt? One of_ us _?_

The thought of Victoria’s running off gripped his rib cage like a vice, but he shook it off, turning back to the street and saying pointedly, “It’s too bad we didn’t hear anything new from the police.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Héctor sag a little, but not in exhaustion or sadness. He fought the urge to smile—so it was true Héctor hadn’t said anything to them. If that was the case, then everything should still be all right, which was what the both of them needed to hear.

Coco laughed softly as they continued down the street. “I can tell you something new,” she said, and they both looked to her in surprise. She smiled at Julio. “Not new to _you_ , Julio.”

“ _¿Qué?_ Uh… oh!” Relaxing, Julio nodded. “ _Si_ , Héctor, we talked with Victoria before she left.”

Héctor cocked his head, his brow furrowing in confusion.

“She didn’t say it directly, but we could tell… she was worried about you,” Coco said, her eyes glinting in a smile as she looked up at her father. “Not that she would admit it.”

It took the man a second to process this, and then his eyes widened, the corners of his mouth turning up in a genuine smile.

“She really does care about you,” Julio added. “She’s just… a little stubborn about it.” In spite of how much his daughter denied her own feelings, he couldn’t help smiling as he thought back to the conversation. Except…

“ _Sí_. I know how she usually acts around you,” Coco went on, “but don’t take it to heart. She’s definitely softening up.”

Nodding, Julio let Coco take over as he went over the conversation in his head, as much as he could remember. Something was bugging him, now that he thought about it, but what? Victoria had expressed her worry about Héctor, though she tried to write it off as worry over Mamá Imelda. She’d also been concerned over whether or not Héctor would say anything to the police, but then…

Julio paused.

There was something else—it had struck him as strange at the time. She’d cut herself off before she’d finished the thought, but what was it? Something about… about the police… the police saying something to…

His phantom heart leaped into his throat, and he gave a strangled gasp.

Coco and Héctor stopped. “Julio?”

His hands were to his temples as he stared at the ground, mind racing. No, he had to be overreacting, right? He had to be thinking about this wrong. They’d only been talking about the statement, which of course involved Héctor talking to the police. But then why would she be concerned about anything the police said to him? Or was she concerned about the police saying something to…

No, no no. This wasn’t right, that wasn’t right at all. No one else had been in the room when he’d talked to Héctor—no one but that _alebrije_. Unless… had she been listening in on the conversation? Had she _heard_ all of that about Héctor, and Ernesto, and…?!

But if she’d heard them, and she knew what was going on, and now she was _missing_ …

_They threatened to hurt someone_ else _?_

A hand gripped Julio’s shoulder, and he yelped, ducking his head into his rib cage as he looked up. Both Coco and Héctor were looking at him in concern, Héctor’s expression bordering on fear. Gulping, Julio pulled his head back onto his shoulders and gave a nervous laugh. “I-I’m all right, Coco, I just, um…” His eyes darted between his wife and father-in-law, not sure whom to speak to. He needed to talk to Héctor, first of all—Héctor was the only one he _could_ talk to about this. Coco wasn’t supposed to know, except, except if he was _right_ , then their daughter could be in danger, and…!

Héctor was at his side, a strained smile on his face as he jerked his head behind them. A quick glance assured him there was nothing there, so Héctor was more likely suggesting they step aside for a moment to talk.

Turning to his wife, Julio gave her an uneasy smile. “Look, um, Héctor wants to talk with me for a moment, so if you’ll let us—”

“No.”

Julio balked. “U-uh… _¿qué?_ ”

Standing as straight as she could, Coco eyed him, frowning. “Anything you can say to Papá, you can say to me,” she said firmly.

Héctor held up his only hand in defense, trying to give her a placating smile, but winced when Coco turned her gaze on him.

“Papá, I _know_ you’re trying to hide something from me,” she said, and Héctor shrank under her gaze until she turned it back to Julio. “What’s going on that’s got you two so upset?”

Oh, no. “…Socorro,” he began hesitantly, “we, uh…”

Looking up at Héctor, he was alarmed to find his father-in-law looking on the verge of panic, breathing quickly as his wide eyes darted around different spots on the ground. He then seemed to freeze up, going very still as he continued to stare at the ground.

Well… if Héctor couldn’t say anything, he was going to have to. “We… didn’t want to tell you this, but last night—”

Héctor sprang to life again, gripping Julio’s shoulder so tight that for a moment he was afraid the bone might crack. His father-in-law shook his head frantically, his expression pleading.

“Papá, _stop_ it,” Coco cut in, throwing her arms out. “I am _not_ a little girl anymore, no matter how you or Mamá think of me. I got enough of this from her when we were both alive.” She shook her head, then turned to Julio. “And you know, Julio—I never kept anything from you.”

Memories came back of when he was alive, waking up to find his wife gone, and hearing a soft voice coming from the front of the house. He’d followed it to find Coco sitting by the window… and _singing_. When she’d realized he was there, she’d quietly told him about the song she used to sing with her papá every night—the song she kept secret even from Mamá Imelda.

“Please don’t keep anything from me.”

Sighing, Julio looked back at Héctor, whose eyes were now shut as he hung his head. If he didn’t know better, he’d almost wonder if the man weren’t praying.

“Papá?”

Héctor lifted his head until their eyes met. Neither of them said anything, but Coco’s gaze had softened. Something must have been silently exchanged between the two of them, because finally Héctor looked away, clearly fighting back tears, and nodded.

Taking his hand, Coco smiled. “ _Gracias,_ Papá.”

Meanwhile, Julio held his breath, hoping this wouldn’t be a mistake. But if Victoria was in danger, it was worth the risk.

After a moment, Héctor pulled out his notepad and balanced it between his bad arm and chest, writing: _not here_.

“Er…” Julio fidgeted with his hat. “Is there a more private place we could discuss this?”

 

* * *

 

Ten minutes later found the three of them crammed into a phone booth. While Julio and Coco of course didn’t mind being so close together, it was a bit more awkward with Héctor having to stoop over them like a broken lamppost.

Julio might have laughed at how absurd they must have looked had he not been feeling so sick. This was a terrible idea, but there was nothing else to be done. Coco couldn’t be kept in the dark, especially since this concerned their daughter. He reached up to tug on his hat, but found he couldn’t do so without elbowing Héctor or Coco, and so wrapped an arm around his wife instead.

“So, um… last night,” he began, noticing Héctor already looking away. “Last night, Dante wound up leading me into Héctor’s room, and Héctor and I… talked about things.”

“What things?” Coco prodded.

“Well… I’m sorry for not telling you before, _mi amor_ , but when we first found him a couple nights ago, I realized that… he’d been lying about something.”

Drawing back as much as she was able in the cramped space, Coco glanced up at Héctor, who glanced at her briefly before immediately looking away, giving a tiny nod. _Lo siento_ , he mouthed.

Should he be telling her everything right now? How much would be safe to say? …Nothing, probably, but he had to say _something_. “Héctor knows more than he’s been telling us, but there’s a reason for that!” he added quickly, noticing that Coco was starting to look angry (whether at him or at the people who had caused this, he wasn’t sure). “It’s… it’s also why I didn’t want to say anything until now.” He bit his lip before continuing: “Héctor’s attackers threatened to hurt someone else if he said something.”

“Oh, Papá!” Coco cried, reaching to place a hand on his back. “If we let the police know—”

“That’s the other thing!” Julio said quickly, as Héctor held up his hand and shook his head frantically. “The police—or some of them—are in on it.”

Coco stared at him for a moment, wide-eyed, before her brow furrowed. “That’s why you didn’t say anything when you gave your statement,” she murmured, and Héctor nodded. Suddenly she gave a start, jostling the other two. “And Victoria ran off!”

“I-I think she may have listened into our conversation,” Julio went on. “Do you think she may have tried to do something?”

“I _know_ she did.” Her eyes narrowed, fists clenching. “If someone dared hurt her—!”

“We don’t know that yet!” Julio cried, grabbing his wife’s shoulder. “Victoria’s smart and tough.”

Coco looked him in the eye. “So is Papá.”

Everyone was quiet for a moment before Héctor held out his notepad: _find Imelda_

No one could disagree with that, and without another word they opened the door to the phone booth, squeezing back out into the street. Coco led the group while Julio aided Héctor in walking, though they were quick to notice the route Coco was taking.

“This is back the way we came!” Julio pointed out.

“ _Sí_ ,” Coco replied. “Time to rendezvous.”

 

* * *

 

Héctor felt like he was hobbling through a nightmare. Everything around him felt hazy, unreal, in spite of everything else he felt.

His leg was aching something terrible as they neared the house, but it was nothing compared to the sickness in his midsection, to the terror he felt in the depths of his marrow.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. He was supposed to just stay at home, and not say a word, and everyone else would be fine. Or perhaps he shouldn’t have even gone home in the first place—he should have just dragged himself back to Shantytown and stayed there, and then everyone else would be _fine_.

They weren’t supposed to get involved. They weren’t supposed to eavesdrop. They weren’t supposed to demand answers. This was what he had been trying so hard to _avoid_.

“ _Oye_ , Coco!”

“Did you find anything?”

Nearly falling, he realized that Julio had stopped walking, and that they were standing at the front gates of the _hacienda_. The twins were already there, Felipe checking a pocket watch while Óscar leaned against the gate next to him.

“No,” Coco replied, hurrying up to them. “But there’s something else going on.”

“ _¡¿Qué—?!_ ” Felipe fumbled with his watch, shoving it back into his apron pocket.

“What’s going on _now_?” Óscar asked, throwing his arms out. “Did you run into Victoria?”

“Is she all right?”

Héctor tugged on the brim of his hat, staring down at the ground. This was all a mistake—what if Victoria was fine, and he was putting everyone else in danger by letting them know about this? But if Victoria _was_ in danger, then they had to know, but—!

“That’s the thing,” Julio said, patting Héctor lightly on the back to bring him out of his thoughts. “We don’t know if—”

“You’re all here already?” Rosita was hurrying toward them, Imelda not far behind. She craned her neck as she looked around the small group. “Did you find Dante?”

“No, none of us have found him yet,” Felipe lamented.

“But Coco was just saying she found something else.”

Imelda rushed to catch up with the rest of them, surprisingly fast despite wearing heels. “Really? What did you find, _mija_?”

No, no, this wasn’t supposed to happen, they weren’t supposed to find out—it was bad enough that Coco knew now, but for the rest of them…! Pulling away from Julio, Héctor reached forward to grip Coco’s shoulder, and gave her a pleading look. But she only glanced back at him, placing her hand over his before turning back to the family.

“Julio and Héctor told me something about that night,” Coco began, “the night we found Héctor.”

_No, no, please, they can’t know yet—_

Imelda glanced at Héctor for a moment before looking back to Coco. “What happened?”

_Please don’t…_

“The people who attacked him said—”

The air exploded with the sound of wild roaring, shocking everybody but Imelda. The twins bumped shoulder-to-shoulder, Rosita covered where her ears used to be, Julio was ducking into his rib cage, and Coco managed to catch Héctor before he toppled over. Looking up, they found an enormous _alebrije_ descending on them.

“Pepita!” Imelda called, pointing up at her accusingly. “Where have you been?! We needed your help to find—”

And the second Pepita landed, another, much smaller _alebrije_ toppled off of her shoulders with a frantic _howl_. It took them only moments to recognize the colorful dog that was shaking itself on the ground.

“DANTE?!”

If Peptia’s sudden entrance hadn’t cut through Héctor’s terror, Dante’s appearance absolutely did. His wings were outspread, clearly missing feathers, while many of his remaining ones looked torn. More alarmingly, his body was covered in dark gashes that stood starkly against his brightly glowing skin. He was whining, constantly shifting his weight and raising a different leg each time, as though he were uncomfortable standing.

“ _Oh_!” Rosita was the first to run forward, stooping down to pet the dog. “ _Pobrecito_ , what happened to you?”

Dante ducked away from her hand with a sharp _bark_ , and didn’t stop, continuing to bark and whimper and whine as he looked around the family frantically.

“The officer said he jumped out a window—that’s where those cuts probably came from,” Imelda said. She calmly walked closer to the dog, reaching a hand toward him. “Come, Dante. We need to get you home.”

In response, the dog backed away, growling.

_That’s not like him,_ Héctor thought, brow furrowing. The only times he’d heard Dante growl were when he tried to attack Ernesto, and last night, when he tried to keep Julio from leaving the room. …Wait.

“Dante!” Imelda said, more firmly this time, and gave a sharp whistle as she stepped closer. “Someone open the gate, and someone else go around the other side—”

Pepita ducked her enormous head so that it was between Imelda and Dante, and gave her owner a hard look. Dante, meanwhile, continued to whimper.

“ _Pepita_!” Imelda cried indignantly. “What’s gotten into you?!”

Limping closer, Héctor held out his hand toward Imelda. “W-wait…” he rasped, eying her before looking back at Dante. “W-wants… t— show—” He broke into a ragged cough, then tightened his rib cage in an effort to stop.

Imelda looked at him, then back at the _alebrijes_. “Is that true?”

Pepita gave a rumbling _purr_.

Suddenly Dante broke out into another loud, shrill howl that tapered off into a frantic whine. His wings flapped erratically, barely lifting the front half of his body a few inches off the ground before he dropped. In response, Pepita stooped down, gently picking him up in her mouth like a lioness carrying a cub.

Héctor was quite sure he was about to look like an idiot, but he knelt down to face Dante anyway, drawing in as deep of a breath as his broken ribs would allow. “Is this…” he whispered, fighting to keep from coughing again, “about… Vic…toria…?”

Dante’s tail wagged rapidly, and Pepita let out another short _purr_.

Two normally positive responses from animals, and they filled him with a heavy dread that made his bones feel like lead weights.

He looked back at the family, and if they hadn’t heard him, they at least noticed his expression, because they all looked horrified. Coco and Julio in particular exchanged wide-eyed glances before rushing up to the _alebrijes_. “They want us to come with them,” Coco said quickly, looking back at Imelda. “Is that right?”

“It seems that way,” Imelda replied, and quickly climbed aboard the _alebrije’s_ back. “She wouldn’t want to take us somewhere if it weren’t important.”

Eying Pepita’s head uneasily, Héctor placed a hand on her shoulder to steady himself as he tried to pull himself up. Fortunately, Imelda helped him up without question (but not without rolling her eyes), apparently not wanting to even bother trying to dissuade him. Coco and Julio were quick to follow, but when the twins and Rosita attempted to get closer, Imelda shook her head.

“No, Pepita can’t carry any more. You three stay here and wait to see if Victoria comes back. If we find something, I’ll send Pepita out to get you.”

While Imelda talked to them, Héctor twisted around as best as he could, trying to see past her to Coco and Julio. Though Julio looked afraid, keeping one arm around his wife and his other hand firmly clutching his hat, Coco had a fire in her eyes that reminded him very, very much of Imelda. She returned his look, giving a nod as she tightened her grip on Pepita’s fur, and he took it to mean that she understood what he was worried about. He looked away, facing forward again and desperately, desperately hoping he was wrong.

“Take us there, Pepita,” Imelda said, and the _alebrije_ sprang into the air.

 

* * *

 

The flight was more stressful than he’d expected. It seemed that Pepita didn’t know exactly where to go, but was instead being led by Dante, who was also uncertain. More than once Pepita made to land, only for Dante to bark loudly, and Pepita to swoop back into the air again, a frustrated growl rumbling within her chest. With every false lead, Héctor could feel the tension of the situation grow to a nearly unbearable level.

He was quite certain someone was going to snap, whether it was Pepita or one of the souls riding on her back.

It was growing dark when Dante finally began barking frantically as they neared one of the towers. As Pepita banked down toward a particular building, Dante’s cries only became more desperate. When Pepita landed heavily behind the building, the dog wriggled out of her mouth, taking off around the side of the building.

“He’s found something,” Imelda said, sliding off Pepita’s back with practiced ease before helping Héctor down. To their surprise, Coco had _leaped_ down and was already running after Dante, while Julio still struggled to dismount.

Héctor hobbled as quickly as he could after them, ignoring the growing pain in his broken tibia. While he was afraid of what he would find, he was relieved that at least this building didn’t appear to be abandoned, like the one he’d been lured into what felt like an age ago. Instead it seemed to be an apartment building—not a particularly nice one, but inhabited nonetheless.

They found Dante scratching and whining at a door on the side of the building. When Coco tried the handle and found it unlocked, Dante immediately wriggled past her. She peered inside, and momentarily balked. “Oh, my.”

If Héctor felt tired now, he felt it tenfold upon looking past Coco and up into a stairwell, where he could hear Dante’s frantic footsteps growing more and more distant.

“Pepita,” Imelda called, looking back to the end of the alley, where Pepita had landed. “Wait here while we—”

A distant roar answered her, and the four of them exchanged glances, stunned.

Julio adjusted his hat. “Wh-where did she—”

Shaking her head, Imelda scooped Héctor into her arms before entering the stairwell. “Come on.”

The action startled Héctor, but he couldn’t say he was upset to get off his broken leg and not have to mount the stairs by himself. Especially since the stairs seemed to go on for ages—they must have already climbed about ten flights, and they were still going, Dante whimpering somewhere above them. While Imelda and Coco pressed on, Julio seemed to be getting winded, but none of them stopped.

Finally they reached a floor somewhere near the top, where Dante was once again frantically scratching at the door. Julio struggled to catch his breath, while Coco wasted no time in throwing open the door, allowing Dante to scramble through.

“Is it… uh… _legal…_ to be sneaking around… an apartment like this…?” Julio wheezed between breaths, glancing down the hall uneasily.

“Do you want to turn back?” Imelda asked, setting Héctor down, and Julio shook his head.

Dante was sniffing around on the floor, walking back and forth before perking up and bolting around the corner. The group rounded said corner just in time to see Dante jump up to paw at a door… only for the door to immediately give way—it hadn’t been latched at all.

Realization struck Héctor, and he placed his hand on Imelda’s shoulder to grab her attention. “I-is this… the apartment… wh…?”

Imelda’s nodded; she’d clearly been thinking the same thing. “It may be,” she whispered back, and they stopped at the open door, peering inside.

The sight of a trashed apartment greeted them, complete with a shattered window that had yet to be patched. Given the fact that only a few pieces of furniture and scattered garbage remained, it looked as though it had been abandoned. “Is this the one he broke into?” Julio asked, voicing their thoughts.

Before anyone could answer, Dante let out a sharp _bark_ , standing on two legs and scratching at a door on the other side of the room. Coco hurried over to open it, but when Dante scurried inside, he came to a halt, whimpering in confusion. The closet was empty.

“I think… whatever he was trying to lead us to is gone,” Coco said, face falling as she looked back at the others.

Héctor’s heart sank. _All that for nothing?!_

“That can’t be it.” Imelda rubbed her forehead as she marched into the room. “Spirit guides don’t lead you to _nothing_.”

Given Imelda was the only one present with a spirit guide of her own, no one else could argue. They immediately began to scour the apartment, Julio checking under a couch while Coco examined the closet more thoroughly and Imelda checked another door. Héctor, meanwhile, watched Dante, who was now sniffing around the apartment again. Brow furrowing, he followed the dog toward the kitchen area, only to sigh when he saw the kibble scattered around the floor. _Ay, stupid_ perro _._

Except Dante ignored the food entirely, walking past it and up to a section of the counter, his head shooting up. Standing up on two legs, he placed his front paws on the counter, sniffing at something sitting atop it.

Something that was reflecting the dim light from outside.

Héctor limped across the kitchen, staring down at the object—objects?—that sat there, wondering what on earth had caught the dog’s interest. There he found a scrap of paper sitting next to a pair of eyeglasses.

…Wait, those looked like—

A strangled gasp caught in his rib cage as he snatched up the glasses in his trembling hand, turning it over and shaking his head. _No, no no no…!_

“Papá, what is it?” Coco hurried to his side, squinting at the object he held, only to take a step back, her hand over her mouth.

“Th-those—!” Julio snatched the glasses away from Héctor, staring down at them. “Th-these look like Victoria’s!”

He could barely hear them as the world spun around him, his legs nearly giving out.

_This is my fault,_ he thought, the voice seeming loud and accusatory in his mind. _But I didn’t say anything, did I? I didn’t—Ernesto, you know I didn’t say anything! Nothing they didn’t already know!_ This had to be a mistake, this had to be—

Something squeezed his shoulder tightly, pulling him out of his daze. “Stay with us, Héctor,” Imelda said firmly, keeping her hand on his shoulder when he glanced at her. Coco and Julio were both talking so quickly that he couldn’t catch what they were saying, especially not above Dante’s whimpering, but a sharp _shh!_ from Imelda quieted them all down as she picked up the slip of paper that had been sitting next to the glasses.

“ _Keep quiet and don’t get the police involved if you want the_ señora _returned_ _in one piece._ ”

Julio cried out in horror while Coco went eerily quiet. Héctor might have found it concerning had the world not gone strangely still, all sounds around him fading to a quiet hum.

So that was it. It didn’t feel real, but it had happened. The worst thing—the thing he had put himself in harm’s way, left himself in the hands of Ernesto’s lackeys, in order to prevent—had happened. Just as he had been at Ernesto’s mercy two nights ago, so, now, was Victoria.

His granddaughter.

The hum was slowly turning into a high-pitched whine, like a buzz of electricity, like the screeching brakes of a trolley cart, like the shriek of a tea kettle. He wasn’t aware of much anything else, the world around him gray and numb, aside from a feeling somewhere in his chest that he couldn’t immediately identify, but it was steadily growing, burning through his ribs, his throat, his skull, bright and blazing and _hot_ —

The next thing he was aware of he was leaning against the counter, his remaining hand clenched into a fist and a sharp pain jolting up from his wrist to his shoulder (but primarily in his wrist, where a hairline crack had formed). Slowly he realized his ribs were aching sharply as they heaved in constant, deep breaths, but he made no effort to stop them, the pain mere background noise to the sheer anger that consumed him.

“I didn’t—say— _anything_ ,” he choked, his body trembling as he glared at the empty space on the counter where the glasses and note once sat. “You—y-you _cabrón_ , I didn’t…”

“Papá,” came a strangely calm voice from his side, strange enough that he finally turned to look. “Who has taken my daughter?”

He noticed the other two first—Julio’s whole frame shaking, while even Imelda, always the one to remain strong for the rest of the family, couldn’t conceal her worry. But it was Coco Héctor stared at, realizing her expression wasn’t as blank as it had initially seemed—it was controlled, a firm, calm mask hiding a storm of horror and fury beyond it.

He looked from Coco, to Imelda, to Julio, the latter of whom stared at him, his eyes pleading—not that he needed to.

The worst had happened, and there was no reason to hide anymore.

“Ernesto,” he whispered. “H—he… did it.”

Imelda’s eyes went wide, while Julio’s shoulders slumped.

Pulling his hand away from the counter, he clutched at his empty wrist, holding it up while keeping his gaze trained on his daughter. “D-did this…” His voice was already growing rough, but he had to speak—he couldn’t keep silent any longer. “Was… going to… g-go after… you.”

“ _What_?” Coco blinked, her calm giving way. “A-after _me_? But he didn’t… I…”

Héctor sighed, rubbing his wrist again.

“The—the delivery!” Julio sputtered, grasping Coco’s shoulder, and she turned to him in surprise. “That delivery, the one we did the night Héctor was attacked—!”

“All this time…”

Everyone turned to Imelda, who was staring at Héctor with an unreadable expression.

“All this time, _Ernesto_ has been the one going after you, and attacking you, and threatening our family,” she began, and Héctor felt a tug under his ribs, “and you have said nothing.”

Anger draining, Héctor felt himself overcome with shame, and looked away, no longer able to meet her gaze.

Julio looked as though he were about to say something, but Imelda held up her hand to silence him. “Instead of immediately disregarding what that lunatic had to say, and saying anything to us, you kept silent, and suffered alone.”

Héctor was not used to defending himself before Imelda—he had not done so in many, many years—but he couldn’t help but say something. “I-I… had… to protect… this family,” he whispered, still staring down at the floor.

“ _Idiota_.”

He flinched, his frame drooping.

“You’ve been away from this family for so many years, you’ve forgotten how things work around here.” And to his surprise, Imelda gently cupped his face, lifting his head until he was looking at her. “In _our_ family, we protect each other. You don’t have to do this alone anymore.”

With that, Imelda pulled Héctor into a gentle embrace, tucking her head carefully against his shoulder.

Héctor went very still, too shocked to immediately hug her back.

_Our family._

Slowly another sensation welled up within his chest, but not anger like before. It was like a tight knot had been loosened, and he felt himself sinking into Imelda’s embrace.

“Okay, this is very, very sweet,” began a strained voice from just outside the kitchen—

“But this is _not the time_!”

Pulling away, Héctor and Imelda looked up to find that they, Julio, and Coco were not the only ones in the apartment: Óscar, Felipe, and Rosita stood behind them, all of them looking alarmed. Dante stood in front of them, looking from one group to the other.

How long had they been standing there?

“Victoria is in trouble,” Rosita said, stepping forward, “and if that awful man really does have anything to do with it, then we need to hurry!”

Shaking himself bodily and ignoring the pain, Héctor nodded. There would be time for this later—finding Victoria before those scoundrels did anything to her (or did anything _else_ to her) came first. “C… could… they be… wh…”

“Where we first found you?” Imelda finished, and he nodded. “It’s possible, but that seems too obvious.”

“Wait,” Coco said, turning to Julio. “What about the apartment the delivery was to?”

Her husband nodded frantically. “It’s the best guess we have. But the address is on a receipt at—”

Coco pulled a folded slip of paper out of her pocket, cocking a brow bone. “You didn’t think I still keep papers that are important to me?”

“… _Te amo, mi amor._ ”

“That settles it, then,” Imelda said, drawing the attention of the rest of the family. “We can’t go to the police, so we’ll do this ourselves. Rosita, Héctor, and I will ride Pepita back to where we found him. Coco, Julio, Óscar, and Felipe will go to the delivery address.”

Everyone voiced their agreement, while Dante gave a quiet _woof_.

“One last thing.” Imelda placed a hand on Héctor’s shoulder, turning to face him. “He has your hand as well, doesn’t he?”

Flinching, Héctor gave a hesitant nod, but then shook his head. “Doesn’t matter,” he muttered, his non-existent stomach churning as memories of that terrible night threatened to come back. “F-family… is more… important.”

Her hand squeezed his shoulder gently. “ _You_ are family too, Héctor.” She then turned to the rest of them. “Keep an eye out for it. We are getting back Victoria, _and_ Héctor’s hand.”

With that, the family rushed out of the building, Héctor limping after them. In spite of everything that was happening, he felt a strangely comforting familiarity about the situation. Memories returned of all of them (plus one living boy) running down the halls of the backstage of an enormous theater, chasing after the man who had tried to destroy their lives. It had been dangerous and frightening, yet Héctor had felt a strength he hadn’t known before, fighting alongside people he could possibly call _family_ … though that had been more of a hope than a certainty at the time.

This time, it _was_ a certainty.

Héctor’s broken bones still ached, but just as he had earlier, he could ignore the pain, for the fire that burned within him. But it was no longer merely a fire burning out of fury.

It was a fire, blazing with strength, fueled by every soul around him.

Fueled by his family.

**Author's Note:**

> If you want to see more of my stuff (and updates on how writing the fic is going), you can find it on my art/writing blog on Tumblr, [bcdrawsandwrites](http://bcdrawsandwrites.tumblr.com).


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